


Odi et Amo

by oratorio



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, references to past non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 25,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oratorio/pseuds/oratorio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, based on a kmeme prompt. Fenris runs further south to escape his master, and meets [Awakening] Anders on the road. They are each what the other hates, but both see sense in teaming up to keep their freedom. In time, they find their opinions and thoughts being challenged. Something else grows through the hatred, like grass through concrete. But what happens when one of them is caught?  Will love overcome years of hate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This is being written in response to a prompt on the Dragon Age Kink Meme, it's still a work in progress. The prompt asked for an AU story where Fenris runs to Ferelden instead of Kirkwall, and meets Anders on the road. Along the way, they will both learn things which challenge the way they think, and they will be developing feelings that they cannot deny. What happens at the denouement - when either of them gets caught? We shall see.
> 
> I don't have a beta as I am not sure how to go about getting one, so please be gentle!
> 
> As ever, this world is Bioware's, I am just playing in the sandbox.

* * *

**Odi et amo.  Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.  nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.**

_I hate and I love.  Why I do this, perhaps you ask.  I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured._

[Catullus 85]

 

* * *

 

Andraste’s knickerweasels, he had almost forgotten how cold that water was.  Shuddering in his drenched underclothes, his robes bundled up in a sack tied to his waist, Anders crawled out of Lake Calenhad and dragged himself under an overhanging bush, teeth clashing together and tendrils of liquid ice pouring through his veins.  He wished he had time to light a fire, but all he could do was hope that his clothes had escaped the worst of the wet in the oiled burlap sack he had hastily shoved them into, and that they would stop him from freezing to death at the least.

 

There had been a disturbance in the Tower that evening, one which had commanded the attention of both Knight-Commander Greagoir and the First Enchanter.  Something to do with blood magic and an escaped apprentice, apparently.  Anders doubted that apprentices would be capable of bringing the world to its knees, but he appreciated the distraction that the incident had caused.  He had been on kitchen duty that night as part of the ongoing punishments meted out to him after his last escape – as if the twelve months in solitary confinement was not enough.  He sometimes thought that having to work with Cook was worse.  She was a florid faced harridan of a woman who enjoyed nothing more than tormenting those poor souls sent to work in the bowels of the Tower in the hot, dank kitchens.  Luckily, she was also terribly nosy and a voracious gossip so as soon as the whispers came that a mage had escaped the Circle she scurried off to find out more, leaving Anders effectively unsupervised.

 

Mistake.

 

Anders knew that, by now, someone would have discovered that the blood mage apprentice was not the only prisoner to have slipped their shackles tonight.  No doubt the Templars were out there looking for him already.  He hoped that their ranks had been thinned out by the pursuit of the apprentice, and that this would increase his chances of getting well clear of the Tower and on his way to freedom.

 

He shrugged his damp, cold body into the damp, cold robes and hugged himself tightly, shivering.  His skin hurt and his joints felt almost immobilised.  He knew he had to press on, any hesitation now and he would find himself back in that gloomy, dark cell in the basement, not a soul to keep him company except Mr Wiggums.  And, even then, only when the cat could be bothered.  For all his joking about Cook, he simply could not countenance having to spend a single minute being even more alone.

 

Anders crept through the underbrush, trying to tread as lightly as possible but move as fast as he could on prickling, frozen feet.  He knew it made little difference where he headed, only that he could not stop for long as they would be on his tail.  Right now, he felt as if he would settle for making it until morning, to watch the sunrise.  It had been so long.

 

* * *

 

Fenris scaled a tree in the Frostback Mountains and peered at his surroundings.  Yes, this looked as good a place as any to stop.  No signs of human life, just the occasional squirrel.

 

He still wasn’t used to the freshness of the mountain air, the chill in the breeze.  Since his escape two years ago, he had slowly made his way south, as far from Seheron and the Empire as he could get.  He had travelled through Antiva, a bustling, colourful country which smelled of rotten meat and oil; and through the Free Marches, an area dominated by three noisy cities and farms.  He had planned to stay in the southernmost city, Kirkwall, for a while as he had heard that mages were strictly controlled there, but when he arrived and saw just how many people were thronging the city gates he made a decision to stow away on a boat to Ferelden.  There were rumours of a Blight in Ferelden, but he would rather take his chances with that than risk discovery by his former master.

 

He had been cursed by his master to suffer the unique looks created by the silvery lyrium markings branded into his tanned flesh.  Such features made it impossible for him to blend into a crowd; he would be noticed, and therefore he had to be as far away from people as possible.

 

This mountainous region had been perfect for him.  Hardly another being had he seen, except for the deer and squirrels he took for meat.  Spring water was plentiful as well as melting ice from the crevasses in the mountainsides, and there were plenty of trees and caves to shelter him at night.  It was cold, yes, but he was used to the cold.  Even the bitterness of the stillest night felt sweet in freedom.

 

He used his belt to secure his leg to the tree and settled back against the bark to doze.

* * *

 

Four days.  Four sunrises, four sunsets.  Anders was cold and hungry but had begun to hope that he had got enough of a start that he might yet see a few more.  He was just starting to allow himself to enjoy his surroundings and the freedom he was tasting, instead of the initial panic and fear that accompanied this, his seventh escape attempt.

 

He knew he was in the Frostback Mountains now, where he had never been before.  It made no difference where he went or how well he hid, he knew they could find him.  He was trying to make the most of the time he had, and to see as much of the land as he could.  Last time, he had run towards Denerim and had grubbed a living in the back alleys of the city.  That was the first time he had ever been offered a job – well, an honest job at least, if you could call it that.  Not that he had accepted it, preferring to be a customer than an employee…

 

No such services here, amidst the towering rock and the gnarled and ancient trees that clung to it.  A person could feel very alone in a place like this, Anders mused.  He almost began to understand why the dwarves from nearby Orzammar were afraid of the unending sky.  Anders, however, had known a loneliness far beyond that of the wilderness.  For him, this landscape meant peace and beauty.

 

He had watched the sunset for too long, and darkness was falling.  Shelter was needed now, it was to be a chill night.  He tramped purposefully through the moss and the mulch, keeping his eyes focused on the rocky outcrops he was passing, looking for a likely cave or bolthole.

 

So intent on the land was he that he had not noticed the gathering of yellow-eyed hunters following his trail.  They moved as one, soundlessly, behind him, waiting for the right moment to attack.

 

Anders felt his foot catch on a tree root, and his body tilt forward.  He hit the ground hard, his breath leaving his body in a rush.  Damn it.  He began to push himself off the ground, stretching his limbs to check for injury, when he saw the wolves surrounding him, and froze.

 

Fenris was just slipping into dreams when he heard the noises from below.  Peering down through the gloom of dusk, he was astonished to see a human male on the ground underneath the tree.  His astonishment turned quickly into anxiety when he noticed the man’s predicament.  Without thinking, he slipped out of the belt which held him to the branch and scrabbled down the trunk, unsheathing his sword in one fluid movement as he hit the ground.

 

Fenris made no sound as he danced around the small clearing, wielding his sword before him.  Within minutes, five wolves were dead and the remaining three had turned tail and fled into the darkness.  He sheathed his weapon and turned to the man.

 

“Well.  I am sure there is some explanation for this.”


	2. Tension

Anders was too shocked to speak.  The events of the last few minutes had left his brain unable to process what was happening.  Eventually he blurted out the only thing that came to his mind.

  
“I bloody hate wolves.”

 

The elf standing over him crimped his lips in a smirk as Anders spoke, but made no reply.  This was too much.  Attacked by wolves, rescued by an elf.  A bloody weird looking elf at that.

 

“Who are you, anyway?”

 

“Is that how humans address the person who saved their life?  I could ask you much the same question.”

 

“I’m… sorry.  Thank you.  It’s not that I’m not grateful – I am – I just wasn’t expecting to see an elf in the middle of the Frostbacks.”

 

The elf offered his hand and pulled Anders to his feet.

 

“Why I am here is none of your concern.  For you, it was simply luck that I was here at all.  Why would an unarmed man be wandering around the mountains at dusk, I ask myself.  Are you lost?”

 

“Lost?  To be lost you have to have somewhere to belong.  No, I am not lost.  And I am not exactly unarmed.”

 

“I see no weapon, human.”

 

“Ah, well, you see.  I sort of am one.”

 

There was a silence as the elf looked Anders up and down before grimacing in distaste.

 

“Tell me you are not a mage.”

 

“Hello? Mage’s robes?  Bit of a giveaway, I would have thought.  Or have you never actually met a mage before?”

 

“Pfaugh!”  The elf paced up and down, body tense, muttering to himself in a language that Anders did not understand.  The words did not sound comforting.  Finally he turned to Anders.

 

“Mage!  I should have left you to die!”

 

Anders took a step back in shock at the rage and bitterness twisting across the elf’s features.

 

“What…”

 

“Get out of my sight, mage.  You sully me with your presence.”

 

This elf was clearly mad, or dangerous, or most probably both.  Anders backed away, eyes wide, before turning and fleeing into the woods.

 

* * *

Anders was up before the dawn, crawling out of the tiny gap between rocks where he had squeezed the night before.  He had hardly slept, imagining yellow eyes in the darkness waiting for his most vulnerable moment to strike.  He was tired and still shaken from the previous night’s events – both the wolves and the strange angry elf who Anders had thought had saved his life only to take it at the discovery of his magic.

 

South, he thought.  Head south, it might be warmer and safer.  Find a little village somewhere where nobody asks questions.

 

He had not gone far when a sound came to his ears.  Straining, he listened – it had sounded almost human.  There – there it was again, just over to the right.  A groaning noise.  Tentatively, Anders crept through the undergrowth, peering cautiously around a tree trunk.

 

It was the elf from the night before.  He was lying on the ground clutching his leg.  His ankle was bent at an odd angle away from his body, Anders could see immediately it was badly broken.  The elf appeared to be in a lot of pain.

 

Anders was a healer by skill and by heart.  He hated to see pain and had always done whatever he could to help, both people and animals.  He gave no thought to his own safety as he hurried over to the elf’s side.

 

“Let me see.”

 

The elf darted a furious glance in his direction.

 

“Begone, mage.  Your evil is not wanted here.”

 

“Evil, is it?  You would have me leave you to rot in the forest until your bones turn to mush?”

 

The elf was silent, glowering at the forest floor.  Anders moved closer and crouched on the floor next to the elf’s damaged leg.

 

“This might hurt.”

 

“I am used to pain.  Just… just do what needs to be done.”

 

Anders could see from the elf’s face that these words tasted bitter on his tongue.  He wondered what had created such hatred for magic and mages, although he was not surprised.  Mages were persecuted everywhere, it was to be expected that people did not truly understand.

 

As gently as he could, he lifted the elf’s leg and cupped his hands around the snapped ankle, careful not to touch the broken skin.  He closed his eyes and focused.  Warm light began to flow from his hands and wrapped itself around the injured limb.  The elf hissed as the bones began to knit together.

 

“There.  It might ache for a while and you need to be careful, but it will hold your weight.  Does that mean we are even?”

 

There was a thick and uncomfortable silence.

 

“Look, I don’t expect your undying gratitude, but it might be nice if you said _something_.”

 

Anders watched the elf curiously.  His cheek was twitching and his mouth worked over silent words.  Moss green eyes finally met Anders’ golden ones.  Anders was taken aback by the emotion in them.

 

“You have my thanks… Mage.” he spat out, before looking away.

 

“I have a name, you know.  You can call me Anders.”

 

“Hmmph.”

 

Anders smiled.  One step at a time, he supposed.

 

“Look, elf, I have a proposition for you, if you would hear me.”

 

“Do I have a choice?”

 

“Of course.  Don’t you always?”

 

The elf looked up sharply at those words.  “Speak, then.”

 

“Well, as you can see I am a healer.  I’m pretty good at it, if I say so myself.  You seem to be pretty good at killing stuff with that big sword of yours.  Whatever we are both doing out here in the mountains, it seems to me that we could watch each other’s backs for a while.”

 

“I am capable of looking after myself.”

 

“I can see that.  That’s how you put your foot in a hole this morning then?  While you were looking after yourself?”

 

“Pfaugh!”

 

Anders shrugged and turned to leave.  “It was just an idea.  I guess we are done here, then.  I wish you well.”

 

“Wait, mage.”

 

Anders stopped and turned to see the elf walking behind him.

 

“It is a sound plan.  I…” he hesitated,” I will trust you.  For now.”

 

Anders nodded.  “Then I will trust you, elf.”

 

“Fenris”

 

“What?”

 

“That is my name.  Fenris.”

 

“Fenris,” Anders tried out the unusual name.  It suited the elf, he thought.

* * *

They were headed south as Anders had planned, hoping to find somewhere they could stop and rest properly.  Travelling together had helped, as it meant one could watch over the other.  Even so, Anders found it hard to relax around the elf as it was clear that, despite his announcement to the contrary, he was distrustful of his magic.  Anders could see the anger that Fenris harboured, and a small voice in his mind asked if he truly felt that Fenris would not turn that anger on him when he was defenceless and vulnerable.

 

Anders had, at first, thought it would be nice to have company.  He had hoped for conversation, even if it was an argument.  At least it would be something.  He hated being alone after so long in solitary confinement, and craved the sound of another’s voice.  And Fenris had the sort of voice he could listen to all day.  It was just a shame that he had heard so little of it.  Fenris did not appear to have any desire to speak with him, and the pair of them spent hours walking before stopping to camp each night, the only words between them being abrupt and necessary instructions.

 

Eventually, after an entire day of trekking in silence broken only by Fenris’ suggestion to collect wood for a fire, Anders snapped.

 

“Look, what is your problem with me, exactly?”

 

“I would have thought that was obvious.  **Mage.** ” Fenris stretched out the final word, to emphasise his point.

 

“So you choose to hate me for what I am? What I cannot help but be?”

 

“I have seen what your kind is capable of.  Do not blame me for detesting what I know is wrong.”

 

“Don’t you think you’re being unfair?  I healed you back in the woods.  If I was going to use my magic against you, don’t you think I’d have done it by now?”

 

“I cannot help but hate what you are.  Nothing will ever change that.”

 

Anders sighed and looked Fenris in the eye.  “Some days, I hate what I am too.”

 

Surprise briefly flashed across Fenris’ face before he looked away.

 

“Let’s just get that fire built.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will eventually be rated M, but not quite yet :o)

Anders walked back into the clearing with another handful of wood to keep the fire burning.  It was nice to have warmth in the chill of the evenings, and it meant they could roast the squirrels and rabbits that they caught for food.  He paused to watch Fenris staring into the fire, an intense look on his face, before curiosity got the better of him.

 

“So, Fenris, you never did tell me how you came to be in the mountains all by yourself, just you and an enormous sword.”

 

Anders plopped down next to Fenris, who tensed at the proximity of the mage.

 

“I seem to remember telling you that it was none of your concern.”

 

“What’s your story, Fenris?  You show up in the depths of the forest, in the armour of a mercenary and the sword of a soldier, with your wild hair and those… tattoos?  You save my life then terrify me with your hatred of magic, you agree to walk with me but refuse to talk to me, and you look like you want to run me through every time I spark up the fire.  Who are you and why do you hate so much?”

 

“I am from Tevinter, at least that is what I believe.  I am here because I no longer wish to continue the life I had before.  That is all you need know.”

 

“Tevinter?  The Imperium?”

 

Fenris winced at Anders’ words.  Anders did not notice and went on.

 

“But I would love to live in Tevinter!  That is the only place in the world where mages can truly be free, where they are not hunted and taken away from everything they hold dear.”

 

Fenris suddenly exploded, coming to his feet and looming over Anders, fists clenched in fury.

 

“Pah!  You know nothing, mage.  Nothing.  Mages in Tevinter are corrupt, dangerous.  Magic is the tool of evil.  The things that are done to people in the name of magic…” Fenris shook his head and struggled for control.  His voice quietened and he sat down again, further away from Anders than before.  “You are a fool.  And I will not speak of Tevinter to you any further.”

 

Anders considered the elf, who was shaking despite the warmth of the fire.  His shoulders were hunched and his eyes half closed, clearly caught up in a memory.  Anders made a decision, even as he knew it was probably not a sensible idea.

 

“What are you running from?”

 

Fenris gave no indication that he had heard.  Anders shuffled closer along the ground.  Stretching out a hand, he reached to touch the tattoos on Fenris’ forearm.

 

“What are these-“

 

Blue.  Power.  A thumping in his ears, his magic singing through his veins, racing in his body.  The light blinding, sparking from his fingers, throwing him backwards on to the floor.  Fenris arching over him, glowing… actually glowing.  Reaching towards him, fury in his eyes.  Anders rolled to one side and squealed.

 

Fenris growled and threw himself to the floor next to Anders.  He was shuddering violently and had wrapped his arms around himself, the glow subsiding.

 

“Never touch me, Mage… I could have killed you.  Perhaps I should have killed you.”

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

Fenris was unable to answer.  He shook his head.

 

“You ask too many questions, Mage.”

 

* * *

 

They lay that way for some minutes, staring at the sky, neither of them speaking.  Anders shivered uncontrollably from the effects touching Fenris had had on his magic, and from the feelings he had experienced when Fenris had leaned over him, radiating silver rage.  He had never seen such anger in anyone.  It had been the most gloriously terrifying thing that had ever happened to him.  His magic still thrummed under his skin, vibrating like a cello, and – for being so close to death - he felt truly alive.

 

“My master is a powerful Magister in Tevinter.”

 

The sound of Fenris’ voice, controlled and sonorous, was so unexpected that Anders squeaked in surprise, then coughed to hide his embarrassment.

 

“Your… master?”

 

“You do not have slaves in Ferelden?”

 

“Not officially, no.  There are laws against that sort of thing.”

 

“Ah.  Were that so in Tevinter… but no, the magisters there control everything to their advantage, including people.”

 

“So you were a slave?”

 

“I am a slave, mage.  My master hunts me still.  I have despatched several of his warriors over the past two years, and I am sure there will be many more.”

 

“You were special to him then, that he hunts you so far?”

 

Fenris snorted.  “Special!  I suppose you could say that.  I am his… investment.  My skin is what is valuable to him.  Pfaugh.  He will have to cut it from my cold dead body before I ever return to his service.”

 

“Your tattoos, you mean?  What are they?  I mean, are they magic?  Are you a mage too?”

 

“A mage as a slave, ha,” Fenris shook his head.  “You live in a strange world.  I have no magic, nor do I wish for it.”

 

“Then what…”

 

“My earliest memory is of these, tattoos, as you call them.  They are more like brands.  This is pure lyrium, forced under my skin to feed Danarius’ needs.  That is why he would hunt me.”

 

“You had lyrium embedded in your skin?”

 

“Trust me, mage, when I say it is not an experience I wish to repeat.”

 

“I suppose it is a stupid question to ask if it hurt.”

 

“A very stupid question, but I would expect nothing else.  I will never forget the pain for as long as I live.  Many other things about my life I have forgotten, but those parts I wish to forget the most seem to always remain with me.”

 

“I… think I can understand a bit more now.  Thank you.”

 

Fenris huffed but did not reply.   They lay in silence as the sky darkened, before Fenris fell asleep with Anders watching over him.

 

Even in sleep, Fenris did not look at peace.  Anders wondered if he was the same.  He certainly never felt peaceful or rested.  Dreams often brought memories of confinement, of torture.  He could still feel the burn of the whip, the tightening of his skin as ice cold iron was pressed into him, the agony of the shackles stretching his body as he hung from the wall.  He sighed.  It seemed as if he had met this elf for a reason, though Maker knew what that reason might be.  Both running away, hiding from those who would hurt them.  He smiled wryly.  They probably had more in common than Fenris would ever admit to.

 

Fenris rolled over and moaned softly in his sleep.  A lock of his white hair fell into his eyes.  Anders hesitantly reached over a finger and tucked the hair behind the elf’s pointed ear, brushing against the skin slightly.  Fenris moaned again and shuddered without waking.  Anders turned away, his face hot.  Fenris’ hair had been so soft and his skin so warm.  Memories of the radiant fury from earlier played across his mind, and to his shock he realised he was aroused.  Burning with shame, he quickly got to his feet and backed away from the sleeping elf, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning arrived, crisp and bright, and Fenris woke Anders none too gently with a kick to the hip.

“Come, mage, we need to keep moving.”

“Ungh. Maker’s breath, elf, could you not be more gentle?”

“Move.”

Anders sighed. “Yes, ser. Whatever you say, ser.”

Fenris’ mouth set in a tight line and his entire body tensed. “You will not speak to me like that, mage.”

Anders felt his heart sink. He was an idiot. “Fenris, I apologise. I speak before thinking sometimes.”

“Do you ever actually think, I wonder? No matter.”

It was as if the marginally softer Fenris from the night before had disappeared, and left an even spikier elf in his place.

Anders felt the tension crackle in the air as he quickly gathered together the uneaten food in the burlap sack he had carried around since his escape. He decided it was prudent to remain quiet, and followed Fenris meekly on to the dusty road where they continued their journey.

The sun was high in the sky when they came across a track leading up to a small village. It appeared deserted. Fenris nodded at Anders, and they both approached cautiously. As they set foot in the main square, a barn door burst open and half a dozen creatures came shambling out.

“Darkspawn!” cried Anders. This was the first time they had encountered such beasts, although the rumours had been rife of a Blight for several months now. These were humanoid beings, skin peeled back from wicked looking teeth, eyes sunken into their heads and devoid of expression. The smell of carrion and sulphur carried towards the men as the darkspawn shuffled towards them purposely.

Fenris was a whirlwind of force, leaping at the darkspawn with his sword raised. Maker, thought Anders, that sword is as tall as he is, yet he wields it as if it were a toy. Anders barely had to cast a rejuvenation spell as Fenris sliced down each darkspawn in turn, cutting off heads and limbs and eviscerating their bodies, black blood seeping across the cobblestones of the village.

More darkspawn flowed from behind the cottages at the north end of the village, and Fenris continued his wild pirouettes, whipping his blade in circles, meeting dangers from all sides with equal ferocity and leaving trails of limbs and flesh behind him. Anders could only gape at the raw power the elf emitted, lyrium shimmering gently across his exposed skin and fire in his green eyes. Aside from the clash of swords, Fenris fought in silence, moving exquisitely and fluently among his enemies like a deadly premier danseur. Finally, all of the monsters lay dead at his feet and Fenris wiped his blade on the long grass growing around the statue in the village square. Anders busied himself burning the corpses. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked the elf.

“Not a scratch, mage,” Fenris replied with a smirk. “None of this blood is mine. No healing required. I need a bath, though.”

At the image this conjured, Anders flushed and quickly looked away.

“First, we look for any survivors here. We may find a use for your magic yet.”

They found the remaining villagers hiding in the basement of a nearby house, shielded from the darkspawn by a magical barrier. The villagers were all overjoyed at their rescue, but Anders caught the moue of disgust on Fenris’ face when he realised that he had unwittingly saved another mage.

“We cannot thank you enough,” Matthias, the mage, was grateful to the point of grovelling to the two men. “We had thought we would starve to death down here.”

“I do not need your thanks.” Fenris prickled.

Anders shook his head. “Do not mind the elf. It was our pleasure. Now, we have a favour we must ask you.”

Fenris snorted at the use of the word “we” but made no comment.

“Anything we can do, we will,” Matthias promised.

“We require shelter for a few days, a bath, warm beds and hot meals.”

“We have little, but what we have we will share with weary travellers, especially those to whom we owe such a debt,” Matthias bowed. “You will be welcome in my home.”

“You have my thanks,” Anders smiled, already picturing sinking into hot water, soothing his aching muscles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating changed to M for reasons which will become obvious...

“You are expecting me to share the home of a mage?” Fenris hissed as soon as they were out of earshot of the villagers.

“You have been sharing a camp with one for the past weeks.”

“That is… different.”

“How is it different?”

“I cannot explain, mage. Do not question me.” Fenris’ eyes hooded and his face assumed a hard expression. Anders knew better than to pursue this line of conversation, intriguing though it was.

“Fine. But you said you needed a bath, and Maker knows I would kill to sleep in a soft bed just for one night instead of in the dirt like an animal.”

“I will bathe. But I sleep in the barn.”

“If that makes you feel better.” Anders shrugged. He understood that Fenris had his reasons for his hatred and distrust, but sometimes his sheer stubbornness was frustrating.

“It has nothing to do with feeling,” spat the elf, before gathering up his weapon and heading towards the hayloft.

Anders sighed and knocked on Matthias’ door. Maker, he was really looking forward to that bath.

 

* * *

 

Anders closed his eyes in bliss as he stepped into the deep, foaming bath and began to sink his aching joints into the warmth. The water hugged his grubby, cold skin and began to lave away the rigours of life on the road. He lay back and sighed deeply. It would be wonderful indeed if he never had to leave this place, if he could make a life here which would mean hot baths whenever he wanted, clean sheets and a feather bed. He knew the only way he would ever be able to live without constantly looking behind him would be to find his phylactery. While his blood was still in the hands of the Templars, eventually they would trace him, no matter where he ran.

For now, though, he only wanted to think about tonight, about the roof over his head and a night spent in comfort. For the first time in months he felt relaxed. So relaxed that he fell asleep in the bath.

He woke with a start to cooling, muddy looking water and the daylight in the room fading to grey. Shivering, he stepped out of the tub and cast about for his towel. He froze as the bathroom door flew open, hearing a string of Tevinter phrases in a familiar voice before the door slammed shut again. Anders chuckled. It sounded like Fenris was not impressed at interrupting his ablutions.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Anders emptied the tub and wiped it before going in search of the bedroom he had been given. Fenris was standing outside the bathroom door, leaning against the wall.

“I apologise, mage. I did not realise you were still bathing.” Fenris was unable to meet his eyes, his head turned to one side and his gaze fixed on the floor.

“I am used to having no privacy, Fenris. It is not an issue for me. No apology needed.”

“Still…” Fenris sighed. He slowly turned his head to meet Anders’ eyes. His expression was unreadable, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“Mage, those…” Fenris was not able to continue, merely waving an arm at Anders’ unclothed torso.

“You mean my scars?”

“Yes.”

“How things are in Tevinter is not how things are elsewhere in this world, Fenris. That is, I am sure, not what you want to hear, but it is the story of my life.”

“I would hear that story, if you will tell it.”

“You… would?”

“Yes. “ Fenris hissed the word. Every pore of his being did not want to accept that his truth might not be the same for others, but he knew he had to hear what Anders had to say.

“Well. Let me get some clothes on while you bathe, then we shall take a walk.”

Fenris nodded. Anders walked back to his room, shaking his head. This was not what he had expected.

 

* * *

 

Fenris poured water into the warmed copper tub, his mind racing at what he had seen. He had thought the mage done with bathing, and had not even knocked. His throat tightened as he remembered Anders’ naked body, damp and golden, but mapped with a tale that Fenris had never even imagined the cheerful mage could tell.

Anders’ body had been a criss-cross of scars, long stripes across his back speaking of violent whippings, tight gnarled knots of scar tissue across his chest detailing the horrors of prolonged tortures.

Fenris stripped off his tunic and breeches and stepped into the tub, fingers tracing his own markings. He usually avoided looking at his own body, hating the ugly streaks of silver which snaked over his corded muscles. He gazed down at his torso, mentally comparing his lyrium scars to Anders’ raised flesh. It seemed that he was not the only one branded with pain.

His fingers slid down into the water, moving along his slippery skin, following a path along his pale lines, the lyrium sparking blue under his touch and lighting up the water with a soft glow. These marks were his story, a story he had already spoken of, although in no detail. Anders had been interested, had been concerned. He realised suddenly that he himself had never listened in return. Never thought a mage would have anything worth saying. He exhaled loudly as he considered he might be wrong.

He supposed he had subconsciously known that there might have been more to the mage than he had first thought. Why else would he have spared his life when provoked by his Tevinter musings? Why else would he be travelling through the lonely countryside with only an apostate for company? He sank further into the water, contemplating the past two weeks since he had met Anders. Without even noticing, his fingers dipped below his waist and ran across the lines at the top of his thighs, into his groin. He gasped as his hand came into contact with his cock, fully erect and rearing out of the water. He closed his eyes and started to stroke himself, feebly trying to pretend that he was not really thinking about the mage’s amber eyes, broad chest, surprisingly tight arse. Fenris sighed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for talking about rape and sexual assault in this chapter. Please be aware.

Anders waited in the square for Fenris to finish his bath, leaning up against the ugly stone statue which for some reason formed the focal point of the village.  He smiled at the sparrows pecking at the ground at the foot of the statue.  It was comforting to know that even in these dark times, nature endured.

“Fenris.”  Anders greeted the elf, who was flushed and fresh faced from his bathing, damp hair plastered to his neck.  He smiled, “You smell a lot better”.

Fenris made a dismissive noise in his throat.

“Walk with me, then, if you still want to hear what I have to tell you.”

Fenris fell into step beside the mage as they began to stroll around the village square.  He looked at his feet, at the sky, anywhere but at Anders, and waited for him to begin.

Anders breathed out hard.  “I was four when I was sent to the Circle.  My parents gave me up to the Templars at the first sign that something was not right.  I have no memory of either of my parents, I do not even know the name I was born with, and I find it difficult to imagine that life at all.  I often think I hate them, but would I have things differently if I could?  Maker help me, I would.”

Anders pulled out a crust of bread from his robes and broke it up for the birds.

“Once you enter the Circle, you cannot ever leave without permission and even then you will be monitored by the Templars.  The Templars are an order of – I don’t know – holy warriors, who are trained to control mages by any means necessary.  They can drain our mana at a sweep, but that is not always what they use.”

“They use magic to control magic?”

“It’s not really magic, they aren’t mages themselves.  They are forced into the skill by being fed lyrium and that apparently gives them the power to silence magic and drain mana, but nothing else.  The rest of the stuff… well, there’s no magic involved in it, that’s for sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have to realise that Templars have total power over mages.  They can basically do as they like with us, and if we object we are threatened with punishment.  It’s worse for the apprentices, they can be made Tranquil if they cause problems for the Templars.”

“Tranquil?”

“It’s a ritual which takes away all ability to feel emotion and to dream.  A tranquil mage cannot access the Fade.  It is a fate worse than death.”  Anders shuddered.

“Sometimes I think not feeling would be no bad thing.”

Anders shot a glare at Fenris.  “Had you friends who were made Tranquil, you would think very differently.  Tranquil mages are… used… in ways that even Templars would hesitate at with full mages.”

“But if they do not feel anything…”

Anders growled.  “Augh, Maker damn you, elf.  I knew you would not be able to understand!”

Fenris curled his lip.  “I am trying.  I speak what I feel.  It is what it is.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I saw my friends hurt by those who were meant to guard us, I saw my first love held down by four Templars and raped – over and over - and then made Tranquil so he could not report to the Chantry.  The love we shared was wiped away as easily as chalk from a board.  He doesn’t even see me any longer, just looks through me, as if he is an empty vessel.  Which, damn them all, he is.”

Anders’ voice cracked and he wiped away a tear.

“I tried to get away from that place as it was full of memories that plagued me day and night.  Each time, they caught me.  Each time, the punishment was worse.  You saw the physical marks of my punishment.   Getting these – “ Anders opened the front of his tunic and gestured at the revealed scarring, “ - was not as bad as being shut away in a cell with no human contact for months at a time.  I have no idea how long I spent in that hole, the days and nights all blended together.  I hear it was over a year, the last time I was there.  I wanted to die.  I hope that if I escape enough times, they will eventually kill me when they find me.  That is the best I can wish for.”

Fenris stopped suddenly, shaking his head.   “I do not know what to say, mage.”

Anders stepped in front of Fenris, looking down into his olive eyes.  “You do not need to say anything.  So long as you understand how my life has been, and that not all mages are powerful, not all mages are dangerous.”

“But all mages have the ability to be a danger.”

Anders shook his head and smiled sadly.  “I guess it was too much to hope for that you would change your mind about me.”

“I may not have changed my mind, mage, but I do understand.”

“That is something, at least.”

The two men stared at each other for long seconds, the silence heavy.

Fenris frowned suddenly.  “I never would have known that you had suffered, that you had… these…”

The elf suddenly stretched out a hand, and lightly touched one of the knotted scars which twisted across Anders’ chest.  Anders’ breath caught in his throat and his eyes closed, a shudder flickering through his body.  Before he could stop himself, he bent and pressed a hard kiss to Fenris’ lips.  He quickly pulled back and opened his eyes to see the elf staring at him in shock.

“Anders, I’m… sorry,” Fenris stuttered before turning and running to the barn, sliding the door shut behind him.

“Andraste’s flaming ass!” Anders swore softly.  He had no idea what had come over him.  His heart was thumping under his open tunic as if it was knocking to be released from his chest.  It was not until he was back in his room, pulling the blankets over his head, that he realised that Fenris had used his name for the first time.

 

* * *

 

Fenris burrowed into the fragrant hay, not feeling it scratch against his sensitive skin.  Damned mage.  He struggled to process what had just happened and the feelings that it had awoken in his body.  His head was aching, trying to make sense of everything that Anders had said – and that kiss.  Had he really touched the mage’s scars?  Venhedis, that he should do such a thing.  He must be losing his mind.

He chuckled sourly as he thought about what Anders had told him about the Ferelden Circle.  This is what he dreamed of for Tevinter – the control of dangerous magic, the imprisonment of mages.  Yet now, faced with the consequences of that vision, he was left breathless.  Was it right that Anders had been tortured so?  And for what – if what he said was true, simply trying to get away from being held against his will, having committed no crime apart from the accident of birth which made him what he was.

Fenris growled, shaking his head.  This was… confusing.

He touched his fingers to his lips thoughtfully.  Anders had kissed him, briefly, desperately.  He had never been kissed before, at least he had no memory of such a thing.  He had been shocked at the contact, had never thought himself desirable in that way.  And to be kissed by a mage, of all things…

An attractive mage.  A mage who intrigued him, despite himself.  Fenris sank his head into his hands, groaning.  How had this happened?  And what in the Maker’s name was he going to do about it?


	7. Chapter 7

Anders stared into the village square, his eyes drawn to the barn where he knew Fenris was sleeping, old timber silvered in the moonlight.  He hoped the elf was getting more rest than he was.  He hadn’t been able to sleep, thoughts pouring through his head, reliving the feel of Fenris’ warm, dry lips against his and the fizz that had frothed through his bones at the contact between them.  Anders grimaced.  He had wanted the kiss, had wanted more, but what had he done?  He cursed himself for losing his self-control.

 

It had not been easy to speak of his past, his life in the Circle and the tortures he had faced.  He did not know why he had chosen to tell Fenris, of all people.  The elf was hardly the best audience, not exactly the sort of person to patiently listen to the woes of others and certainly not one to provide unquestioning sympathy.  So what had made Anders agree to talk about his scars?  He supposed he had hoped that he could make Fenris see that mages in Ferelden were as oppressed as he himself had been in Tevinter.  He shook his head, sadly.  Silly idea.  Fenris would never change his mind about magic, and instead he had basically assaulted the former slave in the courtyard.  He half expected to see Fenris sneak away in the night, and he wouldn’t have blamed him.

 

He lay back on the hard wooden bed and closed his eyes, trying to force himself into slumber despite the images racing across his mind, projecting themselves on to the inside of his eyelids.  All he could see was Fenris’ eyes, deep pools of green like a murky pond in a forest.  All he could feel was the pressure of his mouth, the taste of his breath, his lips.  All he could hear was the thumping of his own heart, and Fenris stuttering his name.

* * *

He must have finally fallen into a dreamless sleep, as his next conscious thought was about the brightness of the morning sunlight pushing against his eyelids.  He stirred, listlessly pushing his knuckles against his brow.  Only a few moments of peace, then the memory of the evening before crashed into his thoughts, making him frown and exhale in dread of the looming morning.  Perhaps Fenris had run off in the night.  It might make this easier.

 

He leaned over the basin, washing himself quickly with the sponge Matthias had provided, before dressing in his usual robes.  The lodgings were comfortable, and he hoped that he would be able to make use of them for a short while longer, to stay for as long as he felt safe. 

 

Fenris was waiting for him downstairs in the kitchen, eating a rough porridge that Matthias’ young daughter had prepared, shifting from foot to foot.  Anders wondered if Fenris ever really relaxed.  He always looked ready to flee, tight as a bow string, eternally on edge.   Anders felt a tug in his gut as he fought the need to pull the elf into a hug, to unwind his tendons, his muscles, his emotion.

 

“So, mage, what is the plan for today?”

 

Anders did not miss the return to formality of Fenris’ greeting.  He sighed.

 

“Matthias reports that there are still darkspawn in the forest to the south.  I thought we could gather a hunting party to clear the threat to the village.”

 

“I suppose that is the least we can do, given their hospitality.”

 

Anders was surprised at the elf’s rapid agreement to his proposal, but swallowed his smile and simply nodded his head.  “Then we select a group of the finest men and women this village has to offer, and leave after breakfast.”

 

Fenris grunted his assent.

 

Eleven people left the village that day, armed with whatever tools they could find to defend themselves against the looming darkspawn.  Anders had to admit it was an amateur effort – two of the men in the party had only mallets from the village blacksmith and one woman was armed with a piece of broken steel piping, but all of those present stood with a determined air and a bravery borne of desperation.

 

They hadn’t travelled far when they came across their first band of darkspawn.  Fenris led the attack, with Anders at the rear of their motley group of villagers.  Anders couldn’t help but pause briefly to admire the energy with which Fenris threw himself at the enemy, the beauty in his warrior stance and the power in the strong swings of his supple sword arm.

 

The fighting was more brutal than Anders had anticipated – the enemy was more numerous and better armed than any they had encountered before.  He swore as he dug into his robes and found his fingers closing over his last lyrium potion.  One of the women from the village was wounded badly in her thigh, and he threw back the potion as his fingers began to glow with the greenish light of his healing magic.  The spell flew to its target and Anders smiled grimly, seeing the veins knit together and the blood stop flowing.  The woman gazed at him and smiled shakily before passing out.

 

One less soldier.  Already two of the villagers had received mortal wounds, so serious that even Anders’ most powerful spells would have been hopeless, and now a third was out of the fight.  Fenris shouted at the remaining villagers to stay alert, trying to motivate them, although everyone looked exhausted and covered in gore.

 

Anders summoned his last drops of mana and threw a healing spell at the whole group, praying for one final push to drive back the creatures.  He stepped back, drained and wobbly on his feet, watching Fenris leap at the last group of darkspawn with a triumphant shout.  He exhaled.  It looked as if their bunch of fighters were finally getting on top of the enemy.

 

Suddenly he felt a body collide with him from the rear.  His breath expelled in a burst as he turned to see a large hurlock thrusting a shortsword at his abdomen.  He felt a sharp pain and a warmth spreading along his robes, then cold oozing through his veins.  The last thing he saw as his vision blurred and faded was Fenris, skin burning blue, flinging himself at the hurlock and severing its head.

* * *

The pain.  His stomach was on fire, the sensations were dancing before his eyes, leaving him unable to focus as sparkles of agony obscured his vision.  His chest was tight, breath wheezy.  He tried to speak, but only got as far as opening his mouth, tasting earth and moss on his lips.  Oh.  Why was his face in the dirt?  He could feel tears leaking from his eyes, although he did not know why he was crying.

 

“Anders!”

 

He moaned softly as the sound of someone calling his name broke through the echoing buzz that was spinning through his brain.  Through the ghosts on his eyeballs, he saw knees hit the ground next to his face.

 

“Anders, look at me.  Stay with me.  Please.”

 

The words registered slowly, Anders struggling to turn his head enough to see the source of the voice.

 

“You’re hurt.  Can you heal yourself?  Try to heal yourself!”

 

It was the elf, Anders realised.  He sounded… panicky.  That was not reassuring.  Damn, how bad was this… he slowly moved an arm and gasped as he found his robes soaked with blood.

 

“Fenris…  Hurt.”

 

“I know, Anders, try not to move too much.  You need your magic.  _Now!_ ”

 

Anders couldn’t help but smile weakly through the pain.  Fenris, demanding magic.  That was new.

 

“No…  
mana…”

 

He heard Fenris curse in Arcanum as he searched through their provisions and found no potions.

 

“Anders.  Take my arm.”

 

“Wh…?”

 

“Just wrap your hand around my arm.  You need to.”

 

He felt he was a passenger in his own body, watching Fenris reach out and lift his hand, pushing it down on to the elf’s outstretched forearm, stripped of its usual metal gauntlets.  He sighed as a flash of blue stole his vision once more, and the power of lyrium thrummed through his veins, feeding his magic.  The elf hissed, eyes squeezed shut, mouth pursed in a grimace but keeping the pressure on the meeting of his arm and Anders’ hand.

 

Anders felt charged with the lyrium, felt it pouring into him from Fenris’ shaking body, felt the elf tensing with pain as Anders drew sustenance from his skin.  Eventually, Anders pulled his hand away.

 

“I… Fenris… I will try.”

 

Anders fumbled for his magic, feeling the familiar tingle of his healing spell as it surged through his fingers and lit up his hands before the green light exploded and enveloped his entire body.  He gasped as he felt his skin tighten and join together, his kidneys knitting, his intestines repairing.  The blood began to flow in his veins once more, the skin that was pale and dying beginning to blush with pink.  The pain receding, his vision clearing, his lungs filling with sweet forest air.

 

His eyes closed and he drifted into dreams, a smile playing on his lips.


	8. Chapter 8

Fenris ran his hands over the unconscious mage, checking his wounds.  Thank the Maker, the worst of it seemed to have been repaired and Anders’ breathing was steady, his eyes twitching in sleep.  Sleep, not coma.  Fenris let out the breath he had not been aware he had been holding.

 

The remaining villagers hovered behind him, watching in concern.  “The mage will be fine,” Fenris told them.  “The darkspawn are driven back.  You will sleep safer tonight.  Well fought.”

 

The leader of the group of villagers, a burly man with a large gingery beard, bowed.  “We will return home to bring the news.  Can we move him?”

 

Fenris nodded his assent.  “He sleeps deeply.  We will need to carry him.”

 

The villagers lifted Anders gently, wary of the blood caking his robes reminding them of the wounds he had suffered.  Fenris walked at their side, never taking his eyes off the mage.  Venhedis, he thought they had lost him.  He remembered seeing the mage collapse to the floor, robes shredded, scarlet pumping out of his gut, face rigid in shock.  Fenris had decapitated the darkspawn with a roar before dropping to his knees beside Anders, a knot forming in his stomach at the mage’s sightless eyes and rattling throat.  He had thought he was going to be sick, felt as if someone was pummelling him in the chest with a maul.

 

Fenris frowned.  He felt pure relief that Anders was still here, that he had been able to force him back into his body and help him to heal.  He also felt a foreign emotion, something he had never before experienced.  Was this what it meant to care about someone, for it to make a difference whether they lived or died?  He had no memory of ever being affected by another’s life, no recollection of any other person having a positive impact on him at all.  All he had ever felt towards others was hatred, resentment, frustration.  He had welcomed those feelings, as he had thought them better than giving in to blankness.  But this – his concern over the mage – felt different.  More alive, more sustaining – but also frightening.

 

Fenris shook his head fiercely.  To feel any such emotion for a _mage_ was beyond anything he might have believed possible.  He did not welcome the feelings but knew that he would never be able to deny them.  Anders had done nothing wrong, the mage had been an open book to him, had saved his life, had fought beside him for the same cause.  He was no Tevinter magister, despite his claim to wish it for himself.  He was a good man, and deserved no ire.

 

So no anger, but what else?  Fenris licked his lips, remembering again Anders’ kiss in the courtyard.  He couldn’t forget the image of the man leaning towards him, amber eyes closing, and the feel of the alien stubble against his own smooth chin, the press of the soft, moist lips, the slight release of breath that had played over his mouth.  Fenris’ first kiss, at least that he could remember.  He had tensed at the unfamiliar contact, then run away, unable to cope with the sensation.  This was something new.  Danarius had… used him, but never out of any sense of affection or love.  There had been no kisses, no caress.  It had been mechanical, simply the motions of sex.  A punishment.  Danarius would spit on him afterwards, tell him he was useless.

 

“Where shall we take him?”

 

The burly man’s voice broke through Fenris’ reverie, and he shook his head to clear his thoughts.  They were on the outskirts of the village.

 

“He has a room in Matthias’ house.  Take him there, I will see to him.”

 

The man inclined his head.  “Indeed.  Thank you, elf, for what you and your friend have done for this village today.”

 

Fenris smiled.  Friend.  He had never had a friend before.  Was that what Anders was?

 

* * *

 

“Hnngh!”

 

Anders pushed his face deeper into the pillow as he rose from the Fade, eyes glued shut with sleep, his head throbbing.  He snuffled softly into the cotton as he felt fingers running through his hair, stroking his scalp.

 

“What… where?”

 

The hand withdrew from his head.  “Shh, you are safe.  You’ve been asleep for two days.”

 

“F… Fenris?”  Anders frowned in confusion.

 

“You were hurt badly, but we managed to get you healed and brought back here.  How are your wounds?  They look clean.”

 

Anders stretched his body languidly beneath the sheet.  The skin on his belly felt a little taut, but there was no pain.

 

“Feels… okay.  Thank you.”

 

“Mm.  I am glad.”

 

“Fenris?”

 

“Yes, mage?”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

Fenris looked at the sleepy man, reclining on the pillow and squinting up at him with warm eyes.  He had not left the bedside except to relieve himself since he himself had undone Anders’ robes, dressed him in a clean tunic and tucked him into the blankets.  He was not about to tell Anders this, however, and instead grasped for an answer.

 

“I wanted to make sure you were recovering.”

 

“And here I am, all recovered!” Anders smiled, before his expression grew serious.  “I remember what happened, Fenris.  I remember what you did for me.  I owe you my life.”

 

Fenris winced.  “You do not owe me anything.  Your life is your own.”

 

Anders huffed.  “That is not what I meant and you know it.  Stubborn elf!  I’m trying to thank you.”

 

Fenris’ mouth curved in a wry smile.  “I should be more gracious.  I am sorry.”

 

“Who are you and what did you do with Fenris?”  Anders looked confused.

 

“Ha ha, very funny.”

 

“I must still be dreaming.”  Anders grinned up at the elf, who had narrowed his eyes but was still half-smiling, then yelped as Fenris leaned over and pinched his shoulder, hard.  “Ouch!  That hurt!”

 

“You are not dreaming, mage.  Now, have some water.  Your breath smells.”

 

“And he inflicts more pain!” Anders clutched his chest dramatically, but sat up and accepted the glass Fenris offered him, drinking the cool liquid down greedily.

 

* * *

 

Anders remained in bed for another day and night before he felt that his body was replenished and his strength returned.  Fenris had moved into Matthias’ home, stating that he had had enough of the rats in the hayloft.  This meant that Fenris had been able to check on Anders throughout the day, bringing him food and water.  Anders was still constantly surprised by the change in Fenris, and mused over what might have triggered it.

 

Fenris appeared in the doorway, holding Anders’ mage robes.

 

“I did my best with these, though I only had a bucket of cold water and a bar of soap.  Most of the blood has come out, but it has stained.”

 

“You… washed my clothes?”  Anders shook his head.  This was the Fade, surely.  “Are you a demon?”

 

“A demon?  Demon!  How can you even think…” Fenris’ brows knitted in anger and his lyrium lines lit up, pulsing silver.  He leaned over Anders, furious. “You dare compare me to a demon?”

 

Anders smiled.  “That’s better.  I was getting worried.”

 

Fenris turned away, glow subsiding as he breathed hard.  “ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ , mage.  You will be the death of me.”

 

“I hope not,” Anders looked serious.  “I was sort of getting used to having you around.”

 

“Pfaugh.  I won’t wash your clothes forever, mage.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.”

 

Anders looked up into Fenris’ intense gaze, and his breath caught as he registered the naked longing which briefly passed across the elf’s face.  He made a quick decision.

 

“I need some fresh air.  Will you walk with me, in case I get a bit wobbly?”

 

Fenris made a noise of acquiescence in the back of his throat.  “Dress, I will meet you downstairs.”


	9. Chapter 9

Evening was drawing in and the village was silent, a chill breeze stirring the long grass around the statue in the square.  Anders had dressed quickly in his stained robes, tutting over the brown marks and the hasty repair that Matthias had attempted.  Fenris was waiting outside, leaning against the stone wall of the small cottage.  Anders walked past him and waited for the elf to match his stride.

 

They walked in silence, circling the village square.  Anders had brought nothing for the birds this time.  He regretted this omission, as it would have given him something to do with his hands.

 

He cleared his throat, nervous.  “Fenris.  I just wanted to thank you.  Properly.  For sticking with me, for saving my life.  For not hating me, even though what I am is hateful to you.”

 

Fenris cast a sidelong look at him.  “How do you know I do not hate you?”

 

“Um.  I assumed if you did, I wouldn’t be standing here now…”

 

Fenris nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips.

 

“And I guess I thought that you bringing me food, washing my robes… all those things… meant that you might not hate me too much,” Anders blushed, then turned to face Fenris, stopping him in his tracks.

 

“And I hoped that this…”  Anders lifted his hand, drew his fingers through Fenris’ soft white hair in an imitation of what Fenris had done to him as he woke, “this might have shown something other than hate.”  His voice caught as the elf tensed.

 

“So… do you?”

 

Fenris shook his head, struggling for coherent thought.  “Do I what?”

 

“Hate me.”

 

Fenris sighed.  “The truth is, mage… I don’t know what I feel.”

 

Anders looked sad.  “Could you at least, you know, use my name?  I am tired of being called mage.”

 

“It is what you are.”

 

“I am also a man.  A man with a name.  Of sorts.”

 

“Of sorts?”

 

“Anders isn’t my birth name.  I’ve no idea what name my parents gave me.”

 

Fenris looked at him levelly.  “One thing we have in common then, mage.  Anders.”

 

“I think we have more in common than you might like to admit, Fenris.”

 

“Maybe so.”

 

They lapsed into another silence as they walked through the long grass surrounding the stone statue.  Anders was lost in thought, turning over in his mind the signals the elf was giving out, all gentle actions and prickly words.  He wasn’t paying attention to where he was stepping, and felt his stomach drop as his foot dropped into a hole and he stumbled forward, hitting the statue hard with his shoulder.

 

“Fuck!  Maker’s arse, that hurt!”

 

Fenris was at his side, holding him up as his knees sagged.  The elf flinched as Anders called a rejuvenation spell, wincing as the bruise lifted from his muscles and dispersed.

 

“Damned idiot, I should look where I am going…” Anders muttered, angrily.  He felt foolish and flushed with embarrassment, then glanced up at Fenris and flushed even deeper as he took in the look on the elf’s face.

 

“Fe-“

 

Anders never got to finish speaking Fenris’ name, as the elf shoved him back against the statue and pushed his lean, muscular body against his.  Anders’ eyes widened in shock, his mouth fell open and his lungs burned for a breath that he suddenly struggled to take.  All conscious thought left his brain, leaving him only with sensation, as he felt the elf tilt his chin and claim his lips in a deep and surprisingly tender kiss.

 

Anders froze for a beat of his heart, a powerful thump which he fancied he felt against his ribs, then wrapped his arms around the elf, pulling him even tighter against his body.  He moaned against his mouth, closing his eyes and losing himself in the feel of his dry, warm lips and the taste of his tongue, cinnamon and sugar and bitter wine.   Their mouths danced together, a perfect fit, sweet and soft and insistent.   Anders’ fingers had developed a life of their own – sliding across sweaty hide, twining around the straps that secured Fenris’ cuirass, tapping a refrain on the tight leather breeches covering Fenris’ rear.  Fenris tautened against him at the touch,  breathing hard into Anders’ welcoming lips, hot and desperate, rubbing his body against the mage’s solid thigh.  The sharp edges of the statue were grinding into Anders’ back as the elf pressed against him, more bruises being created on his skin, bruises that later he would not heal, wearing them as proof that this moment of overwhelming passion had happened.

 

For it seemed like a moment in time, as Fenris was suddenly stepping away from him, wiping his mouth on the back of his iron gauntlets, eyes shifting away from Anders’ face.

 

Anders cleared his throat, legs wobbling beneath him alarmingly.  _Not now,_ he thought.  _Maker damn him._

 

“Apparently it seems you feel something, at least.”  His voice came out slightly cracked, higher than usual.  He cursed inwardly at the streak of vulnerability revealed in his tone.

 

Fenris glanced up at the mage, speaking no words but saying much.  Anders flinched with the depth of expression in the elf’s intense olive eyes, traces of a sad frown creeping over his countenance.  Anders reached out for his arm, trying so hard to hold him there, to stop him from leaving _again._ Fenris recoiled from the touch, shaking his head slowly, looking up at the sky.  His eyes were moist, cheeks pink, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he swallowed audibly.

 

“Don’t…” Anders shook his head.  “Don’t go.”

 

Fenris snorted, kicking at the floor with one unshod foot.  “I didn’t mean to… that… Fasta vass!  I am no good at this.”

 

“Shall we forget about this?  Is that what you want?”

 

“No… I… I don’t know.  I wanted…”  Fenris looked at the floor, chuckled bitterly, blew out a harsh breath.  “I guess that’s it.  I _wanted_.  And I don’t know if I can.”

 

“Well you don’t need my permission, if that’s what you mean.”  Anders’ lips quirked slightly.

 

“That’s not what I mean!”  Fenris spat out, angrily.  “This is all… new.  Too much.  I’ve never…”

 

“Fenris,” Anders’ voice was soft.  “Not everything unfamiliar has to be bad.  Let me show you.”

 

The elf, normally proud and strong, looked lost and afraid.  He closed his eyes.

 

“I would like you to,” his voice was strained, hesitant. “But not today.  I need… some time.”

 

Anders nodded.  “Take all the time you need.  Just don’t push me away.”

 

They walked back to the farmhouse together, the gaps between them reverberating with silence.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter but again I would like to put a trigger warning for rape and sexual assault - a difficult chapter to write. Poor Fenris.

Fenris sat on a hard stool in the farmhouse kitchen.  The house was silent, all having retired to their beds long ago.  His mind replayed Anders’ words, over and over.  “Take all the time you need,” the mage had said.  All the time he needed.  As if they both had all the time in the world.

 

But they didn’t, did they?  The land was ravaged by Blight, monsters crawling from underground depths to tear out throats, rip off limbs, burn off skin.  Rumours had reached the village of an Archdemon sighted over the Frostback Mountains, where they had themselves been only weeks before.  Fenris had no doubt that the darkspawn they had killed in the forest, the same creatures that had nearly cost Anders his life, had been just the residue of a much larger army. 

 

Not to mention that Anders was an apostate, on the run, and Templars in this land did not seem to be known for their mercy _(Good, his brain insisted, but his heart pummelled at the thought)_.  And Danarius… well, he was never going to allow Fenris a moment’s peace.   The magister was with him every step he took away from Tevinter, every morning he woke under a clear sky, every time he swung his sword in anger, and… yes, every – dangerous, _wonderful_ \- kiss he had shared with the mage.

 

 Fenris sank his head into his hands.  Who knew what might happen in the days, weeks to come?  This was the life they were trying to grab for themselves – a half-life, hiding in shadows, presided over by the slow devastation of their world by dark forces.  Was this as good as it could ever be for either of them?

 

He had to admit to himself that kissing Anders had felt blissful, had made him feel alive in a way he never had before.  He recalled the way his blood had sung in his veins, the way his skull had pounded, the feel of the sturdy mage between his thighs, the taste of him on his breath.  It was the first time he had ever sought out closeness from another, the first time he had chosen to make himself vulnerable.  His heart had swelled to bursting and then –

 

_Danarius pushing him hard against a wall, muffling his cries with a gloved hand.  The swish of magisters’ robes, a grunt and a curse, the pain tearing at him.  Warmth on the back of his thighs, rivulets of fluid staining his skin, scarlet on silver.  Eyes crumpled until tiny explosions decorated his eyelids.  Panting, the scent of sour breath over his shoulder, the tang of stale sweat and metal, bitter tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes._

 

All he had wanted was to be free.  Free from the shackles of slavery, free from the beatings, the abuse, the control.  For now he had no bindings, none that were visible.  But he doubted he would ever be free of these memories, this cursed history writing itself over and over into every day, every moment of his life.

 

And these days were passing by, each one a missed opportunity for living, each dawn unappreciated, the sun setting on everything just the same.  Each hour an instant on the ticking clock of pursuit, an hour closer to the chains closing once more over his wrists, his heart.

 

What was the point of living if living would only make it harder to survive once this small taste of freedom was over?

 

Fenris swigged from the wine bottle, one of several he had appropriated from Matthias’ cellar.  He wanted to forget, just for tonight, forget everything.

 

That was how Anders found him in the morning, snoring and slumped over the kitchen table, eyes gummed shut from crying, mouth stained red as blood.


	11. Chapter 11

Anders crushed the elfroot into the mug, stirring the liquidised herbal mixture with a wooden spoon.  He could have healed Fenris’ wicked hangover with a quick spell, but had decided this would be the better remedy for the elf.

  
“You need to drink this in one go.”  He passed the mug over to Fenris, who had barely moved for the last hour, head resting on his forearm and groaning softly.

“It will deal with your headache.  The rest of it, I’m not sure what I can do.”

Fenris peered at him blearily, wrapping a hand around the warm mug.  “Thank you, Anders.”  He downed the contents, grimacing at the bitter taste.

Anders smiled at the way his name sounded in the elf’s rich tones, even as his heart convulsed at the thought of the pain that he could not fix.  He had never been good at emotions, had been conditioned by the Circle not to feel, not to attach.  Even so, he could see how troubled the elf was, and he wished wholeheartedly that he could do something for him, no matter how small.  He swallowed, pushing away the lump in his throat.

“I’ve been thinking, Fenris.  We’ve been here for too long.  The longer we stay here… the closer the Templars will get to finding me.”

 “You are not the only one being hunted.”  Fenris waved away Anders’ attempted apology.  “We may be delaying the inevitable… but I agree.”

Anders exhaled, relieved.  “The Korcari Wilds are east of here, and Ostagar.  It’s the best path for us to travel and remain as anonymous as possible, I believe.  It’s wilderness, not exactly safe – but our dangers will be animals and bandits, maybe the odd Darkspawn patrol, but not Templars and slavers.”

Fenris regarded the mage silently, eyes still and intense.

“Of course, if you have another plan…” Anders bumbled, unnerved by the elf’s penetrating regard.

Fenris glanced at his hands, shaking his head.  “No, no better plan.  I do not know Ferelden.  I will follow you.”

Anders felt his stomach flutter.  He understood what it must cost for the elf to cede any control, especially to him, a wielder of magic.  He inclined his head, feeling humbled by the former slave’s trust in him.  “I will not let you down.  I swear it.”

Fenris stretched out a hand and ran a gauntleted finger briefly over Anders’ cheek.  The iron was cold and sharp, yet Anders’ skin felt as if it burned under his touch.

“I believe you.”

Three words, hesitant, spoken in a tone so low they were barely heard, resonant and raw with a courage that hurt Anders’ heart.

The two men fell into a hush, staring into each other’s eyes, amber on olive.  Anders felt his lips part, his lungs constricting, a line of sudden desire shooting down his body, straight to his shaft.  He shifted uncomfortably, broke the silence.

  
“Let’s go and tell Matthias we are leaving, thank him for his hospitality.”

Fenris nodded.

 

* * *

 

Matthias refused to let the men leave without provisions.  They gratefully accepted the waterskins and the small parcels of dried meat and hard cheeses, and tied up some small rough blankets which could be fashioned into bedrolls.  They may be back on the road again, but were at least a little buoyed by their time spent in Honnleath.  The villagers had been good to them, the connection with other people not sought but welcomed.

“May the Maker watch over you.”  Anders bowed graciously before the older man and his daughter, before he and Fenris trudged away to begin their long trek through the Wilds.

Nights were cold, days were long as the pair of them travelled quietly, almost companionably, keeping away from the main paths and roads, making their tracks through forests, woods and plains.  They spoke little, for the most part, watchful and alert for dangers, which appeared often without warning and with tiresome regularity.  Wolves and bears, mostly, although there were still small numbers of Darkspawn to be encountered – often rogues and assassins, five of which lay dead on the floor before them now, Fenris wiping his sword, scowling in disgust.

“What’s so funny?”

Anders stifled his chuckles, aware that he sounded slightly hysterical.   “I’m sorry, it’s just those things…” he waved a hand, “they stealth around sneaking up on you, then they grunt _really_ loudly just _before_ they attack, I mean they are the worst rogues _ever_ , surely.”

Fenris looked at him curiously for a beat, then to Anders’ complete surprise he laughed.  A proper laugh, one which sang out from his soul and sparkled in his eyes.

“Well it wasn’t _that_ funny,”  Anders was secretly overjoyed to see Fenris’ unusual levity.

“It’s just you.”

“Me?  What do you mean?”

“Anders, you stand there sounding all plaintive, and you just look so… so damned innocent, when you’re covered in gore and you’ve just incinerated several Darkspawn with your bare hands.  It just… amuses me.”

Anders huffed.  “Glad to be of service, then.”

He dusted down his robes as best he could, then gathered their things and led the way deeper into the wilds, smiling softly at the rare glimmer of light in such gloomy times.

 

* * *

 

They were deep into the Korcari Wilds when they heard a loud screeching cry and the unmistakeable flapping of giant wings.  The men froze, tense and on guard.

“Dragon?”  Anders whispered, terrified.  Could this be the Archdemon, hiding out here in the wastelands?  The pair of them would stand no chance against such a foe.  He longed to throw himself into the nearby bushes, close his eyes and hum until it either went away or ate him.

Fenris was too bold, though, for a man who had spent so long on the run he was remarkably unafraid.  He edged closer to the source of the sounds, Anders trailing reluctantly behind him.

As they stepped cautiously around a small copse of trees, they spotted what seemed to be a small hut some way in the distance, and it was from here that the noises appeared to be coming. 

“Listen,”  Fenris whispered.

Anders strained and could hear the distinctive swish of daggers, the crack of a shield, very human-sounding yells.

“Andraste’s tits, there are people fighting it!”  he exclaimed, stunned.

As the two men watched in shocked silence, they saw the distinct shape of a dragon’s neck rise from a hillock behind the hut, what appeared to be the form of a small, stout woman clinging desperately to its head, stabbing at its eyes with a dagger.

Fenris hesitated no longer, breaking into a long, loping run towards the battle ahead of them, Anders hurrying to keep up, cursing his long robes.

Breathless, panting with exertion, they arrived at the hut and ground to a halt in surprise.  There was no sign of any dragon, just the bleeding body of an elderly woman lying on the hillock.

  
“Um, what-?”  Anders began, then stilled as the door to the hut opened and a dwarven woman appeared, followed by a burly warrior, a lean and glamorous looking male elf and.. wait, was that a _Qunari?_ Carrying a _book?_   Anders shook his head, trying to clear his vision.  Disappearing dragons and now Qunari.  He was obviously hallucinating.

The dwarf glanced up, spotted the men and immediately her hands went to her daggers, crouching into an aggressive pose.

Anders quickly raised his hands and Fenris pushed the tip of his sword into the ground at his feet.

“We mean no harm,” the mage assured them. “We were coming to help with… the… dragon?  Oh, that sounds stupid now.”

The woman snorted.  “Dead.  We could have used a mage, too.  Used up half our potions in that fight.  Not exactly expecting her to turn into a nug-humping dragon, hah.”

“Huh?”  Anders was aware that he sounded vague, confused.

“Our ‘witch of the wilds’ there –“ the dwarf indicated the nearby corpse.  “Last time I agree to do a favour for Morrigan.  Nearly took my sodding head off.”

Fenris frowned.  “Are you saying that she… was the dragon?”

“Precisely what I’m saying, elf.  That _is_ what you are, isn’t it?”

Anders glanced at Fenris’ irritable expression and stepped in quickly, holding out a hand.

  
“Anders, serah, and _the elf_ is Fenris.  Apologies for not arriving sooner.”

The dwarf shook his hand vigorously.  “Brosca.  Natia Brosca.  These reprobates are Alistair, Zevran and Sten.”

“We weren’t expecting to see many people out here in the Wilds.”

“Hah, a long story indeed, which sadly we do not have time to share.  We must return to our camp now, but the hut here is safe if you want to see if there’s anything inside you could use.”

“Our thanks, Natia.”

“Don’t mention it.”  The small and diverse band of fighters departed along a dusty track to the west, the dwarf arguing with the elf as they went.

Anders looked at Fenris.  “Well.  That was… bizarre.”

“True enough.  Still, it appears we have a hut.”

 

They grinned at each other.


	12. Chapter 12

Maker, but it was good to be in a bed again.  The little hut, surprisingly, had contained two beds, small in size but with soft mattresses made of feather and down.  Some of the belongings inside were… unusual, to say the least.  Fenris prickled at the feel of magic in the air, sparking off his lyrium brands, but conceded that it was weakening and most likely residue from the old woman who had lived here.  _Witch,_ they had called her.  Anders had never met any magic-wielder who could turn into a dragon, though.  He half wished the woman had lived so he could have spoken with her about it, perhaps learned some powerful secrets.

The pair spent longer in the hut than they had in Honnleath, Anders able to cast complicated spells to ward them in relative safety, free from the questioning gaze of other people.  Besides, the Wilds were a dangerous territory, not the sort of place Templars or magisters could easily sneak up on them.  Winter was beginning to turn into spring, and the first shoots of fresh grass and bluebells were appearing in the lands around the rundown building.  They spent much time outdoors, trapping rabbits, shooting deer, gathering plants or just sitting quietly, watching their surroundings, talking.  Mostly about inane matters, but occasionally conversation strayed to their lives before, and they had several long debates about magic and mages, neither man willing to retract their own strong opinions but both able to respect the other enough to listen.

Now that they slept in a single room within the hut, Anders had become aware of the dreams that plagued Fenris, often waking to hear him whimpering at night, whispering, “No, _please_ ”, or, worse, “ _Yes, master_ ,” under his breath, thrashing beneath sweaty sheets.  He was beginning to suspect one of the reasons Fenris had pushed him away so violently back in Honnleath.

One fresh and clear evening, as they were lighting a camp fire to roast the venison from that afternoon’s kill, Anders rocked back on his heels and looked the elf in the eye, unblinking.

“Tell me about your master.”

Fenris, who had been adding twigs to the flames, recoiled as if slapped, real pain in his expression.

“Why?  Why do you want to know?  Why now?”

“Fenris.”  Anders moved to the elf and lay a warm hand over his clenched knuckles.  “I’ve heard you at night.  I know you have dreams.”

Fenris stared at the fire, jaw tight and blood pounding in his ears, flushing with shame and embarrassment.  What else had the mage heard?  How much did he know already?  The suddenness of the question had taken him by surprise, not allowed him time to build his defences, and to his horror he realised he felt like crying.

_He would not show weakness in front of this man._

That was the mantra he repeated in his head, over and over, as the silence lengthened between them, the only sound the crackle of the flames.

Finally, Anders sighed.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have brought it up.  I just… I have come to care about you and I wanted to help.  I should have known better.  Please, can we forget I asked?”

Fenris closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he sought to keep control.

“No.  I _cannot_ forget you asked.”

Anders felt sick.  What had he done?

“I cannot forget, because I spend too much of my life trying to either remember what I have forgotten, or to forget the things I remember, and I _won’t_ add anything else to either of those lists.  I cannot forget because I live with the things Danarius did with me, no, _to_ me, every day of my life, and I keep it all to myself, and it’s tearing me up, pursuing me as much as my master himself.  I cannot forget because you have just told me that you **care** for me and no other person in my memory has ever said…”

The elf’s voice rose as he spoke, louder and more urgent, before he broke off, breathing hard, eyes creased tightly in a hard frown, his cheeks quivering.  Anders stared, horrified by the stoic warrior’s obvious struggle not to react, not to _cry._ This was the most he had ever heard Fenris say, and it was overwhelming.

“Then if you cannot forget, help me to understand.  I would like to help you make new memories.  Better ones.”

“They can hardly be any worse,” Fenris gave a dry, brittle laugh, but turned his hand over so their palms touched, curling his fingers slightly against the mage’s warm skin.  They sat like this for some minutes, both looking into the fire, watching the flickering of the flames hypnotically.

 

“I was Danarius’ _favoured slave_ …” Fenris murmured, a bitter edge to his words.

“This meant I accompanied him at all times.  Political meetings, balls, battles… bathing, sleeping.  Everything that was part of his life was part of mine.  **Venhedis** _, I_ was part of his life, forget my own – that did not matter, did not truly exist.  I was worth nothing to him except as a power source for his magic, a tool to terrify his enemies, a novelty to show off to lords and ladies who would coo over me as a plaything – _touch_ my skin, pass me about – and as a means to keep his bed warm at night.”

Fenris began to drag his thumb over the palm of Anders’ hand as he continued to speak, brokenly, hesitating.

“I gave him _everything_ \- my sword arm, my skin, my pain, my memories.  My… body.  I would have given him my life, then.  Yet whatever I did, he would tell me I was _nothing_ , a monstrosity, not fit to lick his boots.  He would… do things to me… that felt like punishment, and I could never understand why, what I had done wrong.  I always did everything he asked of me.  I was…”  he paused over the word, heavy in his mouth, “… _obedient._ Always.  Yet he would show me no kindness.  I meant nothing.  It was made very clear that I had no value beyond my skin, my strength.”

Anders felt his eyes prickle, his mouth dry.  He could not have spoken if he had wanted to.  He concentrated hard on Fenris’ words, the timbre of his voice, the feel of the elf’s thumb circling over his sensitive skin.

“My master.  He is… not a gentle man.”

Fenris exhaled wearily and quietened, eyes closed and head bowed.

“I am not a gentle man, either.  Violence is all I have ever known, all I have ever been, all I can remember.  I am sorry if I am not… a good person to know.”

Anders found his voice, all of his thoughts coming at once.

“Oh, Fenris.  You, my friend… you are a good person, one of the best.  You are steadfast, honest, loyal, unselfish, generous.  You’ve trusted me as a man, not condemned me as a mage, despite all you have seen, all you believe.  Sure, you can be an opinionated ass, and you hate being wrong, and of course you could do with laughing at my jokes a bit more… but, Maker knows, you have been the best thing about the last weeks… you _saved my life_ and you’ve given me a reason to keep going.”

He desperately wanted to hug the elf, his chest aching with pain and empathy, but knowing that any touch right now without expressed permission would be the wrong thing.  Fenris stared at him, swallowing hard, his throat working over the emotion trying to escape him.

“I… don’t know what to say.  Nobody has ever… seen me before.  Not really.  I’m not even sure who I am, yet you profess to care, tell me all these things…”

“Not just words, Fenris, I speak the truth.”

Fenris sighed.  “I know.  It… frightens me.  That anyone can think of me in that way.  That I have to _be someone_ for you.”

Anders shook his head fiercely.  “You don’t _have_ to be anything.  Just you, as you want to be.”

Fenris looked at him, a profound and intimate gaze, eyes deep as the ocean and his pain written clear on his face.

Anders felt his heart break all over again as he regarded the elf tenderly.  “But I… I would like to be someone for _you_ , if you will let me.”

Fenris gave a sad half-smile and leaned into the other man’s shoulder.  “Thank you, Anders.  I will try.”

 

* * *

 

Anders woke in the dark to feel the blanket sliding from the bed and the cold night air seeping over his skin.  He startled, tensing his muscles, squinting hard in a desperate effort to see what was going on.  He was shocked to feel a warm, slender body slide under the blanket next to him, and the covers being drawn back up over his body.

“F- Fenris?”

“Anders.  Please, will you just hold me?  I’ve never had… any simple affections, never just been able to be with someone in that way.  Would you do this for me?  Please. Just for tonight.”

Fenris’ voice was cracked and rough and it sounded as if he had been crying.  Anders couldn’t stand to hear the ordinarily proud man beg him.

“Tonight, tomorrow, any night, Fenris.  You don’t need to ask.  Come here.”

The elf rolled into Anders’ embrace and curled into his chest, sighing deeply.  Anders stroked his soft white hair, enjoying the feel of it against his fingers.  He leaned down to whisper into Fenris’ sensitive ear.

“Goodnight, Fenris.  You are safe here with me now.”

Fenris smiled sleepily and pressed closer against him, so warm and real in his arms.  Anders breathed in his smell, lyrium and oil and spices.  He leaned down to press a kiss to the elf’s forehead, unable to stop himself whispering _I love you_ almost soundlessly, but Fenris was already asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be smut in this chapter. Pretty much from the get-go, actually. Yep, they finally take the step...

Anders stirred in the morning light, rising from dreamless sleep to wonder at the sight of the sleeping elf still wrapped in his arms, head on his chest, breathing warm air softly over his skin.

Good.  Fenris didn’t sleep nearly enough, always seeming to be in a state of constant watchfulness, edgy and strained.  Anders could fully understand why – Maker knew, he looked over his shoulder enough himself – but it wasn’t good for his health to rest so little.

He lay still, the rise and fall of his chest under Fenris’ cheek the only movement.  Anders reflected that this was the most peaceful he had ever seen the elf, and for that matter it was the most peaceful he could remember feeling.  Not for the first time, he wished this were another time, another place, and they were different people – not persecuted, on the run during a Blight on the land.

But then, he thought, they would not be here now, together.  Whatever the reasons for their meeting, whatever lay in their respective histories, he found that he struggled to regret anything that brought them to this place, this morning, this brief moment of serenity.

He glanced down at the man coiled around his torso, and found a pair of deep green eyes peering up at him blearily.  Anders smiled and brushed Fenris’ white bangs out of his face.

“Morning.”

Fenris yawned, wriggling deliciously against Anders’ skin.  He felt a frisson of desire flow through his veins, his body responding automatically to the proximity of the handsome elf, the touch of Fenris’ skin against his chest, strong and limber arms wrapped around his waist.

“Mmm,” Fenris murmured drowsily, rolling over on to his back and gazing up at the ceiling.  “I had forgotten what it was like to sleep without dreams.”

Anders looked down at him, aware that there was probably a silly look of adoration on his face.  “I’m glad.  I think we both needed that.”

Fenris nodded.  “Thank you.”

“No need.”

Anders smiled and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the narrow bed, pulling the blanket around his waist to hide his erection.  He sighed and stretched.  Time to get up, start thinking about trapping some rabbits for the day’s meal.

A pressure against his shoulder stilled him, made his breath catch in his throat.  Then again, the unmistakeable feel of Fenris’ lips against his skin, his scars.

Anders hummed softly, shoulders sagging, welcoming the touch of fingers against his back, bumping over the knotted lines and stroking lightly against the softer unmarked skin at his waist.  He remained facing the door, not daring to turn, afraid to break the spell that Fenris was weaving with his hands, his mouth.

A sudden tug and the blanket rustled against the floor, leaving both men exposed in the grey of the dawn, Anders instinctively reaching to cover the evidence of his arousal, not ready to inflict his _want_ on to the fragile elf.  Tanned fingers grasped his wrist, pulling his hand away from his groin.

“I want to see you.”

His voice was low, huskier even than usual, thick with unexpected emotion.

Anders’ mouth was dry, his mind wandering as he lay back on the pillows, quivering with fear and desire in equal amounts.  How he _wanted_ this, wanted to feel the elf’s gaze roaming his body, to see the glint in his eyes and the curve of his lips as he drank in the sight of the man splayed before him.  To see the bulge of Fenris’ smallclothes telling his own story of appreciation.   He wished he could lose himself in this moment, to see where these looks, these touches would take them.

But it was wrong.

  
“Fenris, I can’t allow this… to happen.  I’m sorry.  It wouldn’t be right.”

Instantly, he saw the elf’s face shut down, all desire vanished, replaced by a more familiar fury.

“Explain.”

“I just… can’t.  I’d be taking advantage of you… after last night, all that you said.  This is too soon, I can’t hurt you.”

“You don’t want to, then.”  A touch of pain through the anger.

Anders cursed, fingers anxiously wrenching at his own hair.  “Maker save me, Fenris, there’s nothing I want more.  I wish… but you would only regret allowing me to.. and I can’t do that to you, to us.  I care about you too much.”

“It has nothing to do with allowing.  I am here because I want to be, this is… what I _wanted_.  I thought you did, too.  But obviously you don’t, obviously not enough.  You don’t choose _for_ me, mage.  If you turn me away, know it is for your own reasons, not because you think you know what is best for me.  You do not.”

As he spoke, Fenris leaped from the bed, pulling on his armour to protect his body just as surely as he was rebuilding the walls around his heart.

“I am not made of glass.  I will not have you treat me as if you can break me.”

Anders closed his eyes, feeling his erection wilt between his thighs, the chill of the breeze from the slamming of the door dancing over his skin.

He sighed.  What a mess.  How could he put this right?

 

* * *

 

Fenris was gone all day, the hours stretching out long and painful as Anders lingered outside the hut, jumping at every breath of wind, every rustle of leaves.

_Please come back.  I was wrong.  I’m sorry.  I need you._

The words were whispered into the wind which dried the tears on his cheeks.

He had been so stupid.  Had felt the closeness between them as they slept, bodies entwined, hearts beating in the same space, sweat mingling and breaths driving away the dreams.  Had finally connected, that last little step, two men both dramatically different and yet somehow the same, in the light of morning both wanting, _needing_ the other.  And he had been so damned _stupid_. 

_What gave you the right to make his decision?  You are a senseless fool, unworthy of him._

Anders lay his head in his hands and _waited._

The darkness was drawing in, deep blue clouds creeping across the sky, when he finally returned, empty handed and empty-eyed, brushing past Anders without saying a word.

Anders gulped, swallowing down his nerves, the pain in his chest flaring as Fenris disappeared into the hut, slamming the door in his face.  _Ouch._ He knew he had to follow, no matter what came next.

 

Fenris was standing with his hands on the fireplace mantel, staring into the ashes, head low.

Anders crossed the room in a matter of strides, not hesitating, grabbing Fenris by his shoulder and spinning him round so the men were face to face.  Fenris’ startled, flinching.  Anders felt a brief pang, of guilt or horror, but pushed through it, shoving the elf backwards against the wall, allowing his yearning, his _desperation_ , to play across his face.

Fenris sneered at him, held firm against the brickwork, a challenge in his eyes.

“I was worried about you,” Anders breathed, voice heavy with longing.

“You should worry about _yourself_ , mage,” Fenris spat, before twisting from Anders’ grasp and using his visceral strength to reverse their positions, pinning the mage between his thighs.

Anders yelped in surprise, lips parting as Fenris began to fumble roughly with the buckles on his robes, throwing the feathered collar to the floor brusquely and tearing at the coarse fabric covering his chest.

He gasped as his skin was exposed to the elf’s questing hands, his clothes pooling on the floor at his feet, hobbling him like a cowboy’s horse against the wall.  He watched Fenris lower his head to his naked shoulder, felt the bite of teeth, the sharpness of the pain which rose to the surface, red marks blooming fresh over the white of his skin.  The feel of the other man’s body grinding against him, all hard edges and strength and _lust_. 

Fenris used one arm to keep Anders compliant under his onslaught, the other hand free to roam across his body, uncovering him completely, laying him bare before the elf’s piercing gaze.  Anders writhed agonisingly as Fenris took his cock in hand, squeezing hard, dragging his palm over the soft dry heat of him, fingernails digging harshly into the velveteen skin of his groin.

Anders felt himself hardening under the warrior’s forceful touch, whining in pain and desire as Fenris continued his savage ministrations, pinching, biting, drawing his nails hard along the inside of Anders’ thighs, scoring the skin with pink raised trails, _this is where he has touched_ ,  the mage shuddering beneath his fingers.

“Fenris, _please_.”

Anders did not recognise the voice, blinked as he realised the words had come from his own mouth, his body responding almost involuntarily to Fenris’ crude handling.  He felt the elf tense and pause, hands falling away from him, his eyes closing, a grimace on his face.

Fenris cursed loudly in Arcanum, a stream of words which battered like bullets, the pain and bitterness all too apparent in his tone.  Anders sagged as Fenris let his arms drop, stepping away with a snarl. 

“I am sorry.  That was… unforgiveable.”

Anders chuckled.  “Hardly, Fenris.  Don’t stop.”

 

Fenris’ chin snapped up, eyes wide and burning with an intensity that shot through Anders, searing his heart.  Then his hands were on the wall framing Anders’ face, his lips crashing down in a passionate kiss, hips pushing frantically against the mage’s groin, breath coming hard and fast in short bursts.

Anders leaned into the kiss, his hands at Fenris’ narrow waist, pulling the elf flush against his body, warm iron cuirass chafing against his chest.  He felt his fingers wrenching at the straps of the armour, desperate to feel their bodies touch, skin to skin.  He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Fenris’ close-fitting breeches, already stretched tight around his swollen shaft, tugging at them urgently, needing to _see,_ to _feel._

Fenris let out a strangled growl as Anders’ hands brushed against his straining erection, thrust helplessly into the air as he was uncovered, his breeches dropping to his ankles.

Anders stilled the thrashing elf, gripping his shoulders tightly and staring deeply into his eyes.

“Fenris.  Let me do this for you.”

Fenris frowned, puzzled.  “What…?”

The words were stopped in his throat as Anders sank to his knees in front of him, delicately pushing out his tongue to lick along the full length of Fenris’ cock.

Fenris tautened as if electrified, body quivering feverishly.  He groaned deeply as Anders lowered his head, lips moistening and opening to take him in.

He had no idea this would feel so… soft, so sensuous.  So tender.  And so damned _exciting._ He felt his body waken beneath Anders’ touch, senses stirring as if for the first time.  A thrill shot through him as Anders sucked gently, sliding his lips across hot skin, all the while curling his tongue about the underside of his shaft.  And – Maker – what was he doing with his hands?  Fenris squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists, struggling for control.  This was unlike anything he had ever known, anything he had ever imagined.  He had thought himself incapable of such reactions, such feelings.  Thought that part of him was forever gone, numbed by the memory of the humiliations heaped on him in the past.  But this – this was something different.  Something wonderful.

“Oh… oh, _Anders_ …”

Fenris was bucking against him, twitching and shuddering.  Anders gazed up at him, a smile in his eyes, an understanding.  With an almost inhuman wail, Fenris stiffened and convulsed, surging into his mouth, coming hard and long.  Anders took him deeper in, swallowing his seed, lapping gently at his softening length before gently releasing him, leaving him shaking and wobbling on boneless legs against the wall.

“I – ah – sorry.  That was a little.. fast.”

Anders grinned, genuinely delighted at the reaction he had pulled from the taciturn elf.  “Not at all.  I am glad you enjoyed yourself.”

Fenris inclined his head, smiling a little shyly.

“Thank you.  Really.  I never knew…”

Anders interrupted him with a kiss, pulling Fenris into his arms in a tight hug.

Fenris became suddenly aware of the mage’s own unfulfilled desire, cock still hard and throbbing against his thigh.

“You haven’t…”

“Shh.  It isn’t important.  Let’s go to bed.”

Anders wrapped an arm around Fenris’ shoulders and gently led him over to the mattress.  He yawned.  Yes, sleep sounded like a perfect end to the evening.

 

 

* * *

 

“Mmmm,”  Anders felt himself rising from a pleasant dream, the room in darkness, dawn still some hours away.

He had not yet opened his eyes when he became aware that the dream appeared to have followed him into the waking world.

“Hmmm… wha…?”

He cracked open his eyelids, blinking at the sight that met him.  The unmistakeable silvery hair of Fenris, in the darkness, crouched between his thighs and moving over his very insistent cock.  Anders groaned loudly at the feel of the elf’s rough wet tongue licking him from base to tip, swirling over the sensitive head.

“Fenris, Maker…”

Fenris laughed quietly, warm breath tickling his groin.  “Just me, I believe.  This is not the Maker’s work.”

“Ah, Fenris.  It feels incredible.”

He felt Fenris’ lips quirk briefly in the dark against his soft stomach, then the elf resumed his attentions, kissing and licking and even lightly nibbling at the delicate skin of his shaft.  Anders arched his back, fists curling and tightening in the sheets, gasping with pleasure.

Fenris hummed under his breath before taking the mage into his mouth, just the head at first, testing the thickness of his girth and the taste of the fluids that gathered at the tip.  He hesitated briefly before sucking him deeper in, sighing at the feel of the hardness of him under the warm, downy skin.

Anders writhed on the bed.  Maker, the elf was trying to kill him, surely.  The feel of his hot, moist mouth over his cock, the way he drew his lips along the entire length of him, pausing to adjust, his clever tongue stroking and flicking…

He laced his fingers through Fenris’ soft hair, tugging gently.

“Oh, Fenris, I’m going to… so close…”

Fenris responded by gripping his hips tightly, taking him deep into his throat, sighing against him.  He felt his balls tighten, then he was lifting from the bed bodily as he came in jerky spasms, crying out in pleasure and pain and wonder.

He collapsed back against the pillows, breathless and panting.

“Fenris.  Maker’s breath, Fenris.  That was… well, the best way to wake up that there could possibly be.  Wow.”  He smiled at the elf, who had scooted up to lay alongside him.

“You know, you are beautiful.  The most gloriously beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Fenris jerked back at Anders’ words, eyes narrowing slightly, in confusion rather than anger.

“ _Thing,_ am I?”  There was no ire in the elf’s tone.

Anders smiled, his fingers playing over the damp skin of Fenris’ back in small circles as he sighed contentedly.

“You know what I mean.  I’ve thought that since the day I first met you, but –“ he laughed softly, “I’d no idea that it would ever end up like this.”

“It’s the last thing I would have expected,” Fenris admitted.

“Me too.  But… I’m glad.  Tonight has been… well, unbelievable.  I hope…”

Fenris pushed a finger against Anders’ lips.

“Let’s not talk too much about the future.  I have… enjoyed myself with you, tonight.  It was something I did not think possible.  Thank you.”

“Thank _you,_  Fenris.  For everything.”

The men curled up together under the rough blankets, and Anders was soon back in the Fade, snoring softly.  Fenris lay awake, fingers in the mage’s honey blond hair, gazing at the ceiling.

 

 _Beautiful,_ he had said.  _Glorious._ And the way Anders had looked at him, he could see the truth in the words.  For _him_.  The disfigured elven slave, who had never thought himself worthy.  For the first time in his life, he began to wonder if he had been wrong.


	14. Chapter 14

The second bed in the hovel quickly became surplus to requirements, the two men quickly falling into a routine of hunting and scouting before retiring to the solitude of the hut.  They would curl up together in front of the fire or retire to the cool sheets of their bed, hands exploring each other’s skin, each learning the contours of the other, their most sensitive parts.

Anders found it hard to define what this was between them.  He was slow with Fenris, gentle, not wishing to push him into flashbacks of the horror he had experienced at the hands of his master.  When they had finally joined their bodies, Fenris plunging into him with a strangled cry, he had felt an emotion foreign even to him.  Happiness, yes, and pleasure – but something else, too.  He had looked deep into the elf’s tourmaline eyes as he rocked against him and _knew_.  Maker, was this what love felt like?  It was exhilarating and frightening all at once.  Exhilarating because he had never allowed himself to really _feel_ like this before, to open up his heart fully to another person, and it felt like a rush of pure joy.  Frightening because he had no idea how to _be_ in love, or if the feeling would be reciprocated.

Fenris had undoubtedly grown passionate, wholly absorbed in Anders’ body when they lay together, giving all of himself in the throes of their union.  But he was still reticent in many ways, never making any wild declarations or heady promises.   His feelings had to be read from the expressions on his face, the yearning in his eyes, the intensity in the tautness of his lips, the furrow of his brow.  But love – well, that was more than Anders could ever have predicted, and while he suspected that Fenris cared for him, love was a different game entirely.  He wasn’t at all sure that _he_ was ready for it, let alone the fragile slave.

Anders gulped back the bubbling emotion that rose into his throat.  He needed to stay in control of himself, now was not the time to be mooning around like a lovesick fool.  He could not deny how he felt, but he did not have to do anything about it.

 

* * *

 

It was Fenris who spotted the army, dark on the horizon, marching purposely east.

“Anders!  I cannot be sure but I think they’re Darkspawn.  The gait… it seems inhuman.”

“But there’s _hundreds_ of them!”

Fenris looked at him levelly.  “Yes.  This bodes ill.”

As if to cement his words, a distinctive winged creature appeared in the air above the army, swooping low with a throaty roar.

“Shit!  The Archdemon!”

“It appears so.”  Fenris looked even more sombre than usual.  “It seems that this will all be over soon, one way or another.”

Anders frowned.  “It looks like they are heading towards Denerim.  The capital city.  This is serious.  Oh, Maker.  What can we do?”

“We should try to help.  Get there somehow… there must be a way, through the Wilds.”

“But we are just two men, what can we possibly do?”

“It is better than sitting here and waiting for the world to swallow us up.”

Anders nodded miserably.  He knew that Fenris was right, that dying bravely would be better than doing nothing, but Maker he didn’t want to go.  He wanted to stay here in this little hut, in their little bed, and hide from the evil which surrounded them.  Disappear into a little bubble of green eyes and silvered skin and pretend that this life was normal, that they had not a care in the world.  He sighed.

“There is a way.  I came to Denerim this way before, when I escaped the Circle.  We should gather some things and leave now, make the most of the daylight.”

Fenris looked at him solemnly.  “Let us go, then.”

 

* * *

 

It had been a hard journey, rough of terrain and strewn with danger.  They had come across several packs of wolves, some large poisonous spiders and a gang of Chasind barbarians, all of which had been despatched, although on the latter occasion Fenris had been wounded and it had taken a full afternoon to heal him.  They had slept little and the chill of the mist was beginning to make their bones ache.  But finally, they stumbled upon the Drakon River and followed its flow towards the city.

Within a day they could see smoke in the distance and hear the crackle of flames, the clashing of swords, the yells of infantry.  The two men paused, taking in the sights and sounds of what appeared to be a ferocious battle.

Anders looked worried.  “I guess here we are.”

“Indeed.  Stay close behind me, and try not to die.”

“That’s not something I’m planning on doing.”  Anders’ tone was lighthearted but he felt sick to his stomach at the thought of the conflict ahead.

He turned his head and caught Fenris staring at him intently, mouth turned down in a grimace and his forehead lined with anxiety.    _Looks like I’m not the only one scared out of my mind here._

Anders reached over and took Fenris’ gauntleted hand in his, squeezing gently around the sharp edges before lifting it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against his palm.

“I’m ready.”

 

* * *

 

Chaos.  That was the only word in Anders’ head when the two men arrived at the city gates.  Denerim was in ruins, buildings crumbling in flames and bodies lying in the streets, blood running through the gutters in scarlet ribbons.  Small pockets of darkspawn were scattered around the immediate area, being held back by city guards and an instantly recognisable group of adventurers.

“The Warden – she is here!”  Anders sounded relieved as he pointed out the diminutive rogue, flanked by the golden-haired sword-and-board warrior, the hornless Qunari, the handsome elven assassin, a red haired Orlesian-looking archer, a dark haired and exotic looking mage wearing skimpy robes and… wait, that golem looked familiar… no, it couldn’t be.

“Natia.”  Anders greeted her brusquely as she downed her daggers briefly after eviscerating an Emissary.  She wiped the blood on her leggings and looked up at him with a snort.

“Atrast vala, men of the Wilds.  I did not expect to find you here.”

“We have come to offer our assistance.”

“Hah, well we need all the sodding help we can get.  I was about to head into the city with Alistair, Morrigan and Leliana here.  You would be best placed to help Sten keep the gates clear, protect our backs.”

Anders bowed, a grim look on his face.  “This we will do, Warden.  Maker’s blessings go with you.”

“ _Valos atredum_.”  The Warden inclined her head and was gone, her companions trailing behind her.

 

The fighting was fierce, protracted.  There seemed to be no end to the legions of darkspawn assaulting the city gates.  The Qunari was a disciplined leader, directing them all into position while wielding a sword even larger than the one Fenris carried.  And the elven rogue was wicked with his daggers, seeming to be everywhere at once, sinuous and graceful like a cat.  As for the golem – well, the golem was undoubtedly powerful, inlaid gems glinting amber and aquamarine in the light of the flames which licked the city walls, but as a fighter it appeared distracted, and Anders caught it staring at him more than once.

They were a team of good, solid fighters though, and with Anders at their back throwing healing spells at them they managed to overcome every battalion of darkspawn that attacked the gates.  There was only one worrying moment, when the assassin – Zevran – misjudged the reach of an ogre and was swept up in the beast’s giant fist, but Fenris was swiftly there, slicing through the sinews of the ogre’s massive leg and sending it hurtling to the ground, crippled, before finishing it with a brutal stab into its corrupted brain.

Zevran bowed low.  “I am in your debt, warrior.  Perhaps I could repay you later.”

Maker, surely he wasn’t…

Anders interrupted.  “I’m sure there will be no need for that.  Now, should we not be killing darkspawn?  Time is wasting.”

“Ah.  I understand.  In that case, I apologise.”  The rogue winked knowingly and turned away, drawing his daggers anew as he leapt at a nearby Shriek with a bellow.

Minutes ticked by, more darkspawn came.  Anders was throwing back lyrium potions, casting more spells than he had ever done in his life.  He was exhausted and trembling with the effects of the lyrium on his body, almost too tired to worry about staying alive.

He was relieved when there was a brief hiatus after the group swiftly finished off a large band of hurlocks and readied for the next onslaught.  Fenris appeared by his side, dark and silent as a shadow, soot smearing in his hair and on his face.  “You look terrible.  Are you able to continue?”

Anders gave a shaky laugh.  “Gee, you really know how to make a man feel good.  Though I’m not doing well, to be honest.  I have to keep going - we all do - but if I get through this alive I swear I will sleep for a week.”

“You will get through it.  I will make sure of it.”

Anders smiled weakly.  “Thank you, Fenris.  Don’t go doing anything stupid, mind.  I couldn’t bear for anything to happen to you.”

Fenris’ face, which had been wild with combat, visibly softened and a small smile pulled at the corner of his lips  “I will try to avoid stupidity, Anders, I promise.”

And the battle raged on.

 

* * *

 

He was on the verge of dropping where he stood, his fingers burning with the effort of his magic and his eyes unfocused with fatigue, when the sky suddenly lit up with a bright beam of light and their ears were assaulted by a loud explosion – well, Anders thought, it was almost an _implosion_ , a drawing in of sound before a sudden release of energy swept across the battlefield, painting the sky crimson and copper and white.

Grunting and drooling, the remaining darkspawn hesitated before they turned almost as one entity, retreating swiftly from the field, the city guards and remaining soldiers cutting the stragglers down unhindered.

A loud cheer rippled through their ranks, swords being held aloft.  Was this it?  Was it over?  Anders looked over at Fenris, who was standing with his hands on his knees and panting, eyes to the sky.  _It was over._ They were alive.  Maker be praised, the Warden had done it.

That was his last conscious thought before he sank to the ground and his eyes rolled back into his head.

 


	15. Chapter 15

It took Anders a long time to recover his energy after expending every drop of his mana – over and over again - during the final battle of the Blight.  He had downed over a dozen lyrium potions, and the powerful mineral had left him jittery and delirious.  He and Fenris were holed up in an abandoned shop in the former Market District of the ruined city.  Fenris had fashioned a bed for him at the back of the shop, and had stood guard over him day and night until his fevers had passed and he was once again peaceful, sleeping for most of the day and night.

It was a disturbance at the door which finally pulled him entirely out of his drowsy state.

“You must let us pass!  We have reason to believe you are harbouring a dangerous apostate.”

 _Templars._ Anders was instantly alert.  _They’ve found me._

He had known the day would come, but hoped… foolish notion.  Of course, now the Blight was over, they would have few distractions and catching the runaway mage would have returned to the top of their priority list.

Damn this shop, there was no other way out than the front door.  He tensed and cowered in the blankets, listening to the exchange.

“Just what reason do you have to believe that?”  Fenris was growling at the Templars, and Anders could imagine the sneer on his face.

_Please, don’t let them…_

“His phylactery has led us here.  Hiding in plain sight, huh?  Hand him over, and nobody will get hurt.”

“I have seen his scars.  You cannot tell me that he will not be hurt.”

_Thank you, Fenris._

“He is a mage.  He is not important.  We will ensure that no harm comes to you, so long as you do not stand in our way.”

“I would like to see you attempt to harm me.”  Fenris was bristling now, voice taut with anger, lyrium brands softly glowing.  The Templars were silent for a beat, obviously considering the raw power of the elf in front of them.

“Look, elf, it’s like this.  We need the mage.  We cannot return to the Circle without him.  May we offer you a boon in return for his life?  Surely there must be something…”

Anders strained his ears, wondering why it had suddenly gone quiet.

“You can drain mana, is that right?”  Fenris spoke softly, and Anders startled, wondering if he had heard him correctly.

_No, he can’t have._

“All Templars can, it’s a skill at the very heart of our training.”

“I see.”

There was another heavy silence before Fenris half-whispered his next words.

“So if there was a mage, no, a powerful Magister, from the Imperium – you would be able to render him helpless with your… skills?”

“No mage is immune.  What is this about?”

“I need to think.”

“There is no time for thinking.  We need to take the mage.  If you wish for the Templar order to help with this… Magister, then we grant it willingly.  No mage can be allowed to exist outside the Circle.”

_No.  This is not happening._

He had no strength to defend himself, had relied on Fenris, and now… the pain of the elf’s imminent treachery and the tug of the love in his heart for his betrayer overwhelmed him and he sank back on to the makeshift cot, silent sobs racking his body.

“I used to believe the same, with every fibre of my being, every beat of my heart.  But now…”

“Now, we take the apostate.  There is no other _now_.”

Anders peered through his tears to see Fenris pacing furiously behind the door, his fingers entangled in his hair, twisting and pulling at the strands.

“ _Fasta vass!_ Danarius must die, and I cannot do it alone.  I have tried and… others were hurt.  You are offering me a gift, to make the monster mortal before me.  He will die powerless!”  Fenris’ voice was rising in volume, tension evident in every strained word.

“This is your heart’s desire, and we will make it happen.”  The Templar was insistent, probing at the most painful parts of Fenris’ soul.

Fenris stilled suddenly, all nervous movement vanished.

“My heart’s desire,” he murmured, voice modulated and suddenly composed. “Yes, my heart’s desire.”

With a swift movement he flung the door fully open, sliding his sword from his back.

“No other innocents will be hurt because of me.  You will leave now, and the mage stays here.  That is the choice I am giving you.”

“Or what, elf?”

“You do not want to find out.”

“We have made our position clear.  Hand him over, now, or we will have no option but to take him by force.”

“So be it.”

The radiance from Fenris’ brands was blinding.  Anders had never seen him so lit up.  He raised his sword and met the charge of the Templars with a roar.

 

There were only three Templars.  Clearly, they had not thought the mage to be a serious threat.  The price for this complacency was high, their corpses dismembered in the remains of the street outside.  Even without the mage at his back, Fenris had had no trouble slaughtering the men.

Anders watched thunderstruck as Fenris stalked back inside and slammed the door behind him, sinking to the hard floor of the former shop, his face streaked with dirt and blood and what might have been sweat or tears.  He was muttering in Arcanum and shivering.

Fenris looked up at Anders, stunned and unmoving on the cot, before turning his face to the wall.

“I had a chance… a chance to see justice done, to see my master dead.  To be free.  But I couldn’t do it.   _I couldn’t do it_.  Damn my weakness.  What will become of me now?”

To his complete shock, Anders saw that Fenris was crying, his entire body heaving with desperate sobs as he curled into a ball in the corner, hugging his knees with his arms.

For a moment he was frozen, wanting nothing more but to comfort the broken man in front of him, but afraid that he would react violently at a time of such vulnerability.  He settled for words, as he so often did.

“I promised you would be safe with me, once.  And I will always keep that promise.  I would never let you down, Fenris.  I will help you find Danarius.”

At the mention of the magister’s name, Fenris tensed before burying his head in the crook of his elbow and weeping even harder.

“How can you say that to me, Anders, when I was so close to betrayal?”

“But you didn’t.  And I understand.  Really I do.”

Anders finally crossed the room in wide, hurried strides, pulling the elf into his arms and hugging him tightly as he cried.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was skimming back through this today and realised I had made a major error - I had skipped a whole section at the beginning of Ch13. So it wouldn't have made sense to readers. I am so sorry to those who have taken the time to read this - it must have been confusing and rubbish! I have corrected Ch13 now.

They lay like this for hours, Fenris finally crying himself to sleep in Anders’ arms.  The sky grew grey and the floor was cold under Anders’ thighs but he remained unmoving, cradling the elf close to his body.

It was only a loud knocking at the door which brought both men to their feet.  _Not again_.  _Not so soon?_

Fenris cracked open the door and peered out, puffy eyed with sleep and tears.  Two burly Denerim guards stood on the stoop.

“There are three corpses outside your door, elf.  Perhaps you can explain?”

“There are corpses everywhere.  Are you knocking on all the doors of the city asking for reasons?”

“Do not cheek me!  It is clear that these are fresh killed, and Templars to boot.  We have a witness who says she saw you slay them in cold blood right here on your own doorstep.  You are required to attend the King at his quarters here in the city.  At once.”

Fenris was about to argue, to protest, when Anders appeared in the doorway behind him with a weary sigh.  “It is me you want, not the elf.  This is all my fault.  I will come with you, sers, and willingly explain to the King what has happened.  Maker knows, I am tired of running.  Let me just get my things.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris turned on Anders as the door closed behind them.

“What are you thinking?  Have you gone insane?”

“I will _not_ see you dragged before the King for something that I brought to you.  It’s no good, Fenris, it won’t ever stop.  They will always come for me, I will never get away.  I can cope, I can handle being sent back to the Circle, any torture they inflict upon me.  But I can’t bear the thought of you being punished because of me.”

“ _No._ I will not let you!”

“So what do we do, then, Fenris?  Kill all of the guards they send after us?  All the Templars in Ferelden?”

“If that’s what it takes.  You cannot leave.”

“I don’t see that I have much choice in the matter.”

“You said… you said you would never let me down.  That you would help me.  _I need you to stay with me._ Please.”

Anders felt his heart shatter into a million pieces, stabbing through his entire body.  There was nothing they could do to him in the Circle that would hurt like this.

“I… can’t.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Fenris.  I love you.”

He turned and walked out of the door into the waiting grasp of the guards.

 

* * *

 

“Stop!”

_Oh no._ Anders’ stomach dropped as he heard Fenris’ voice behind them, and his soft but fast footsteps hurrying to catch up.

“Unhand this man immediately.  I was the one who killed the Templars.”

The guards looked at each other, confused by these two men who were both desperately trying to take the blame for murder.  Eventually the older of the two spoke.

“Take the elf, too.  The King will decide what to do with them.”

 

* * *

 

The King was awaiting them in his makeshift chambers at the royal palace.  The main building had avoided much damage but the grand halls and meeting  chambers were mainly being used for tending the wounded and sheltering the homeless, as the Chantry had burned to the ground during the battle.

Anders was shocked to come face to face with the brawny warrior who he had last seen at Natia Brosca’s side as the Warden had headed into the depths of Denerim seeking out the Archdemon.  _Maker, he is the King?_ Anders brain struggled to process the fact.  The warrior – King – what was his name, Alistair? - looked different, and it wasn’t just the royal robes he was dressed in or his new station.  He had a tiredness in his eyes, a strain in the muscles of his face and a resigned slump to his posture.  In fact, he looked much as Anders felt.

“What have we here?”  Even his voice was worn, disinterested.

“Your Majesty.  Two men accused of killing three Templars in the Market District this morning.”

“Thank you Ser Paull.  Wait –“ he stared at Anders and Fenris intently, “I know you.  Don’t I?  You were in the battle?”

“Yes, Your Highness.  We were at the gates under the command of your Qunari companion.”

“You fought bravely, I hear.  Zevran said the elf saved his life, and yourself many others with your healing.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.  It was not an easy fight.”

The king’s eyes clouded over and his head bowed.  “That it was not.”  He sat in reflection for a brief moment, then shook himself and stood in front of the men.

“Tell me what happened this morning and why you are here.”

“Ser, as you know I am a mage.  I am apostate, on the run from the Ferelden Circle.  I confess I escaped during a moment of confusion several months ago.  I have always found it… difficult, to be so contained.”

Alistair chuckled sourly.  “I trained as a Templar, mage, so I understand better than you might think.”

Anders blanched.  A _Templar._ Maker, they were doomed.

“Um, I see, well Your Highness, the Templars caught up with me here this morning.  As you probably guessed.  My friend here refused to hand me over.”

“And I suppose you saw killing three innocent men as the better option?”

“ _They were not innocent!_ They would have tortured him!”  Fenris burst out furiously, making Anders cringe with the disrespect he was showing the King of Ferelden.

“Torture?”  Alistair frowned at Fenris, a question in his eyes.

“If you were a Templar then surely you know.  Anders has been tortured many times over for the _crime_ of being born with magic.  I have seen the scars!  Do not believe me feeble, I know all too well what magic can do, but there can be no excuse for inflicting such pain on an innocent man.  This man is a _good man._ He almost killed himself healing others in a battle he had no reason to be a part of.  He came here to help, to give of himself so that this land could be a safer place.  And you would hand him straight back to those who would do him harm!”

There was a pained silence as the king digested the elf’s impassioned words and the guards readied themselves to take Fenris away to the cells, where surely he belonged.

Finally Alistair lifted his head.  “I was never a full Templar, I was conscripted into the Grey Wardens before I finished my training.  I never saw torture… I never knew it was so awful.”  He sighed.  “I could not knowingly send someone who has acted so heroically back to such conditions… but I cannot allow a wanted apostate to walk free.  I find myself in a pickle.”

To Anders surprise, Fenris threw himself on to his knees before the king.  “I beg of you, find mercy for this man.  It was I who slaughtered the Templars, if you must deal out punishment then it is I who should be held responsible.  Do not send Anders away, _please._ I… I just… can’t think of him back in that place.”

Alistair leaned over and used one finger to lift Fenris’ head, looking directly into his eyes.  Anders could see the shimmer of tears there in the dull light of the room.

“You love him, don’t you?”

Fenris nodded slowly.  Anders felt tears on his own cheeks, a sob caught in his throat.

Alistair turned away from the men, leaning over and grabbing the edge of his desk tightly.  His shoulders shook as he heaved in deep breaths.

“I understand.  I would have done anything for the one I loved, had she let me.  Ah, but she was a stubborn one…”

He faced them again, tears in his own eyes, and spoke with a suddenly authoritative voice.

“I hereby conscript you, Anders, into the Grey Wardens.  From this moment you are one of us, no longer a member of the Ferelden Circle.  You will need to undergo the Joining once reinforcements have arrived from Orlais.”

“What?  What does that mean?”  Anders was confused at this sudden turn of events.

“You are now a Grey Warden, no longer an apostate.  To become a full member of our Order, you need to go through a joining ceremony once the senior Wardens arrive from Orlais, I understand they are travelling as we speak.  We will talk more of this later.  You will be allocated quarters at the new Warden outpost at Vigil’s Keep.  However, since the Blight is over…”  he paused, swallowed, “there is likely to be no immediate need of your services and therefore you are free to live as you wish.  You will be called upon if you are required to help defend against future Darkspawn attack.”

“To… live as I wish?”  Anders was aware that he sounded dazed and stupid.

“Indeed.  You did the city a great service during the final hours of the Blight and I wish to honour that in the only way left open to me.  I will also award you a sum of thirty sovereigns in order to begin rebuilding your life outside the Circle, I imagine you do not have much.”

Anders gaped at the king.

“And your friend here may stay at your side for as long as he desires, under the protection of the Wardens.”

It was too much.  He couldn’t take it all in.  His legs weakened under him and he collapsed on the floor, weeping fat tears of relief and disbelief.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting a terrible block with this story and I fear it has rather gotten away from me, but here is the next chapter nonetheless. I would very much appreciate any constructive criticisms as I have the definite impression that I need to be a bit tighter with my writing. Thanks as always for reading!

_“And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you.”_

The words were spoken in a  low, sombre tone by the Warden-Commander, an Orlesian woman who was normally brusque and efficient.  Not today, though.  Anders lifted the oversized goblet, his nostrils flaring at the bitter scent of the dark blood within.  Today, he thought, she appeared almost nervous.  Why, he couldn’t imagine.  It’s not as if she was the one who might be in her grave within the next minutes.  This was certainly not what he had expected when he had gratefully fallen at the feet of his King.  He had hoped for freedom, but it appeared that Fate was not quite done with him yet.

Anders tried not to inhale and tilted the goblet towards his lips, felt the glutinous liquid slide along his tongue, down his throat, coating his entire mouth with a fetid veneer of slime.

His head exploded.  Vision fading to white, then black, the cries of dead men in his ears, echoing as if he were underwater.  The familiar grunts of Darkspawn, flashes of their faces in his mind’s eye, the peeling skin, the blackened fingers, rotting teeth drooling with yellowed spittle.  He could _feel_ them in his mind, tendrils of their primitive thoughts weaving their way into his brain _eat… kill… destroy._   The pain grew in his skull, the pressure excruciating.  He felt rather than heard himself cry out, drowned in the noises rushing at him – a wall of sound, everything and nothing all at once - and then he knew no more.

When his eyelids finally peeled back, he was lying on the softest bed he could ever remember, comfortable despite a lingering pounding in his head.  Fenris was by his side, wiping a damp cloth over his brow, a concerned look on his face.

“Ah Maker, am I still alive?  I feel… strange.”

“You came through.  I had no doubt you would.”  Fenris blinked quickly and looked away, giving the lie to his words.

“It’ll take more than a bit of darkspawn blood to kill me!”  Anders was jovial in his relief, although still adapting to the feel of the taint, the slight but obvious pull of all the Wardens in the Keep around him.

“You will never have to go to the Circle again.”  Fenris brushed Anders’ hair back from his face and began to pull it into his usual ponytail.

“It’s a strange thing indeed.  I don’t think it has sunk in yet.  Not free exactly – but much more free than I would have otherwise been.   But,” Anders paused, “what about you?  Your master yet lives, nothing has changed for you.”

Fenris nodded, slowly.  “It is true I am surrounded by protectors here, but protection can feel like an oppression.  I would confront my master, have him face justice at my hands, but here… Here is not the place this will happen.  He will not come here.  He will send others, infiltrators, to attempt my capture… but Danarius?  No, he would not risk this.”

“So what are you saying, Fenris?”

Fenris sighed.  “I don’t know.  Perhaps that I need to travel again.  To look for him.  Draw him out.  Maybe I should seek out those who would help with my mission, somehow.”

“I will come with you.  I promised to help you defeat your master and I will.”

“You have duties here now, as a Warden.  I will find my own way, do not worry.  I will not hold you to your word.”

“If you think I am swapping one entrapment for another, if you think I am going to leave you to fight alone… Fenris, that is not going to happen.  If I have to do more running away, I will.  I am rather good at it, after all.”

Anders thought he had never seen such a smile on Fenris’ face.

“Then we go together.  We will return here when all is done, if we should succeed.”

Anders sat up and rested his hands on the elf’s shoulders, bringing their foreheads together, warm breaths mingling.

“Good.  I would rather die than leave you now.”

“I will do my best to ensure that does not happen.  Now sleep.  You need your rest.”

Anders did not need telling twice.  He sank gratefully back on to the downy bed and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Months passed.  The two men kept up the pretence of settling into life at the Keep – Anders even adopting a kitten – all the while sending out clandestine messages seeking information about a certain Magister.

Thirty sovereigns was a lot of coin to Anders, more than he had ever had in his life.  Even so, he had no hesitation in handing over ten of the gold pieces to a buxom pirate captain, who promised that she had information about a Tevinter magister who had travelled with several companions in the hold of her ship.  She had winked and grinned, and drawn them a crude map.

Fenris remembered the place, Kirkwall.  He remembered the throngs of people by the city gates, the thugs and the peasants, all trying desperately to gain access as if the streets were running with lyrium instead of sewage.

He remembered taking one look at the dour city guard and their twitchy sword hands, the hundreds of ragged men and women and children who were being turned away, and he remembered he had kept running.

Yet here he was again.  The world had a funny way of turning.

He pulled the hood of his cloak over his face and followed Anders through the crowds, thinner now since the end of the Blight.

“I hope you have a plan.”

“My plan was not to be here at all.  This is an unforgiving place for mages.”

“You are a Grey Warden now.”

“But still a mage.  And being a Warden is no guarantee of protection, not in this city.”

“Then we must be careful.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Fenris shot Anders an angry glare.  “You think I want to see you dragged away by Templars, after all this?”

“Sorry.  Just nerves, I guess.  Let’s go – I think the guards over there seem like the people to speak with.”

 

* * *

 

The men were another five sovereigns lighter, and Anders – posing as a herbalist – had had to make a promise to heal sickly citizens, but they were past the gate, looking around them at the greying brickwork and grubby alleyways of the inner city.

“Delightful place for a holiday.”

“Must you be so pointedly cheerful?”

“Sorry,”  Anders pouted.  “It’s just my way of pretending everything hasn’t gone to shit in a handbasket.”

“I don’t think that’s quite the right expression, but I’ll let it pass.”

“So where now?  There must be an inn here, somewhere.”

The broken glass and smell of stale beer were the tell-tale signs.  Anders couldn’t tell whether they were lucky or unfortunate that the inn had a room available.

“Well… there doesn’t appear to be any bedbugs.”  Fenris curled his lip disdainfully as he peered at the greying sheets.

“Poor things would probably have overdosed, had they tried to bite any of the patrons in here.”

“Hmph.  It will do.”

They settled in to their new accommodation with restless unease, sleeping badly in the lumpy bed, heads filled with dreams of Templars, of magic, of tiny dark cellars, of Darkspawn and revenge.

 

* * *

 

The sovereigns were dwindling as more information was purchased, more ales were consumed in the lengthening evenings.  Danarius was believed to have procured a mansion house in Hightown and could still be within its walls.

In the dusk of evening they arrived at the estate, rundown among more desirable properties, cracks in the walls and cobwebs on the windows.

He was gone, all that was left behind echoes of demons, shades which haunted the empty building and were swiftly defeated.  Fenris cursed loudly, kicking at the rubble of the formerly grand hall with a shoeless foot.

“He was here!  Not so long ago, the shades were fresh summoned.  Fasta vass!  So close…”

“We will find him, Fenris.”

 

But the Magister found them.  Only days later, early one evening when the two men returned to the inn after spending the day scouting out a location for Anders’ new clinic.  There was a strange electricity in the air, a tension among the patrons.

Then he was there, strolling nonchalantly down the stairs, as if he belonged there and this was part of the world he controlled so tightly.

“You travel with a mage I see, my little wolf.  You missed your master that much, that you had to find a companion who reminded you of me?”

“He is nothing like you, _filth._ ”

Fenris was aflame with topaz brilliance, brands burning like magnesium alight under his skin.  Anders had never seen him so furious, so driven with the need to _hurt._ Maker, but even he was scared.

“Ah, so my wolf has fangs, does he?  Hmm, for how long we shall see.”  Danarius grinned widely, white teeth showing through the matted grey of his beard.

“And what of you, Circle Mage?  Do you not wish for your freedom?”

“I am a Grey Warden.”

“You know as well as I do that means nothing in this city.  I believe I could offer you a much better deal.”

“I do not deal with slavers.”

“Mm, but I am so much more than a slaver.  I could offer you true liberty, power.  An apprenticeship, one day to become a Magister, beholden to none.”

Once, this had been his dream.  Once, he would have wanted nothing more.  Tevinter had been his imagined paradise, somewhere he could be true to himself and live his life as a free man.

Dreams never seem as good when you see the pain on which they are built.

He glanced at Fenris, who was quivering with rage and, yes, anxiety.  The elf was looking at Anders with genuine fear in his eyes, knowing how much this offer would mean to him. 

And so it would have, once.  Mere months ago, he would have handed Fenris over without a second thought, elated at the thought of beginning a new life in a place where he would be revered instead of hated.  If he was honest with himself, there was still a part of him now that desired it, and had he not been a Grey Warden, had he still been an apostate on the run…

No, he knew that no life now would ever replace the life he had made with the warrior by his side.

“That is not liberty, slaver.  That is corruption.  Fenris is a free man, and I would die before I saw him back in your hands.”

“So be it.  I cannot pretend that isn’t a terrible shame.  Well, little wolf, it is time to serve me once again.  You may start by removing this stain to magic.  Kill him!”

Fenris turned his gaze on to Anders, his eyes flat and oddly empty.  “I… am sorry.  I did not want it to come to this.”

“What?”  Anders was stunned.  What was happening?

Then the elf was flying at him across the bar, his sword unsheathing in a fluid movement.

“No!”  Anders cried desperately.  “Fenris, it’s me!  I love you!  You are free!”

He ducked, frantically rolling away from the swinging blade.  Fortunately Fenris seemed to be half-hearted in his efforts to run him through, otherwise he was certain he would be in pieces by now.  Literally, that was.  He already felt as if he was coming apart at the seams.

“Fenris, stop!”

The warrior kept coming, almost mechanical in his actions, slicing his sword towards Anders’ head.  Anders squealed and deflected the blade with a nearby chair.

_I have no choice._

He cast a crushing prison spell on the elf, grimacing as he saw the agony on his face, held tightly in the grip of the powerful magic.

Needing to put distance between himself and his lover, he raced across the room, taking shelter behind the bar.  The chipped oak would not provide much protection against cold steel, but it was better than exposing his soft flesh in its entirety.

He summoned more magic, arcane blasts weaving from his fingertips and sinking into the man he loved.  As each spell met its target, Anders cringed, watching Fenris writhe in pain as the magic raced over his body, burning and hurting.

All the while, he was aware of Danarius laughing and clapping as he watched the spectacle unfold beneath him.

Then Fenris was free of the crushing spell, its power worn off.  He snarled and charged. the hard wood of the bar crumbling under the onslaught.  Anders shielded himself but took a blow to the shoulder, blood instantly welling from the cut, his arm hanging uselessly by his side.

Green light and the nerves were mending, he felt his arm tingling as the sensation returned, the wound healed.

“ _Please_ , Fenris.”  He continued to beg, words spilling from his lips in harsh sobs, breathless and terrified.  He hit the elf with a mind blast, stunning him for just long enough to run from him, finding nowhere to run to.

Back against the wall, Anders stared in horror as Fenris stalked towards him, sword outstretched.  He closed his eyes.  All that they had been through in the last months ran through his mind.  He had never thought it would end like this.  A small smile crept across his lips.  At least he had known happiness, albeit briefly.  He only hoped Fenris would recover from this, could find a life anew.

A sound broke the tension, the silence of impending death.  A _whoosh_ , a _clunk._   Then the unmistakeable sound of a body slumping to the ground, rolling down stairs _thump, thump, thump._

Anders slowly opened one eye.  Fenris was frozen before him, his sword still raised, his eyes fixed on the body of the magister lying dead at the bottom of the stairs, a crossbow bolt protruding from one unseeing eye.

“Glad to be of assistance!”  The dwarf they had played cards with many times over the past days… Varric, that was his name… stood at the top of the stairs in the doorway of the rooms he rented.  He held an enormous crossbow in his hands, and wore a wide smile on his beardless face.

 

Fenris let out a strangled cry and dropped his sword as if it were aflame.  He spun on one heel and raced out of the inn, slamming the door behind him.

“Varric.  You have my eternal thanks.  You saved my life.”

“It was the least I could do after all the coin I have won from you recently.”

“I owe you more than coin.  But it will have to wait.  For now, I have to…”

“I understand.  Go get him, Blondie.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was starting to get a bit out of hand and turning into an epic which I never had planned! Hope nobody minds, but I have reined it back in and this will be the last chapter before the epilogue. Thanks so much everyone for reading, commenting and awarding kudos. This is by far the longest thing I have ever written (and it could have been longer! I just felt it shouldn't be) and I didn't think I had it in me to concentrate for so long on one story so it's been a learning curve. Hope you enjoy the final parts :o)

He hadn’t gone far.  Fenris was slumped over in a nearby alleyway, sitting among the dirt and grime, head in his hands and shoulders shaking with the force of his tears.

Anders was at a loss.  He didn’t understand what had happened back there at the inn, why Fenris had turned on him so suddenly.  He thought it had something to do with the hold the magister had had on him, the ties of slavery – but, Maker, he had believed that their love had broken through those bindings months ago.  The realisation of how close the man he adored had come to ending him was enough to send him to his knees on the concrete beside the weeping elf.

Time slowed as the two men formed a painful tableau, both immobilised in their thoughts, each unable to comfort the other, unable to find any words.

Anders had no idea how long they sat like this, the elf struggling to suppress his sobs as Anders fought the urge to pull him into his arms.  How could he console this man when the very thing Fenris was crying over was an attempt on his life?  He could have been bleeding out right now on the splintered wood of the inn’s floor, eyes dimming, and for what?  He shook his head.  For love, he supposed.  To free the man who had come to mean more to him than any other man ever had.

He swallowed painfully, his chest hitching and hurting as if all his internal organs were twisting around each other.  Danarius was dead now.  Nothing like this would ever have to happen again.  He knew he needed to cling to that thought, try to understand that Fenris would never willingly wound him.  If he couldn’t get past this, he knew he would have lost everything that mattered to him.

Tentatively, he stretched out a hand and touched Fenris on the shoulder, lightly.  The elf winced but didn’t pull away.

“I am trying to understand, Fenris.  You were doing as you were conditioned to, not what you wanted to do.”

Fenris turned the liquid depths of his eyes upon him, his agony clear to see.  “I would have killed you.”

“Not by choice.  The hold he had… I could see how strong it was.  He is gone now.  You are truly free.”

“But I won’t ever be free of the knowledge that I _could have killed you_.  Could have destroyed the one thing good about my life.  Pfaugh.  It seems I have done that anyway, regardless.”

“No.”  Anders was firm, his voice steadier than he felt.  “I won’t let that happen.  I won’t let him take from you any more than he already has.  I _love you_ , Fenris.  That has not changed.”

“For months I have planned my vengeance on him.  Dreamed of facing him, of hurting him, of showing him how much I _hate_ , showing him what he has made of me.  And this… _this_ …”  Fenris trailed off, his face contorted with frustration and despair.

“He is dead, Fenris.  You are bound to him no longer.”

“If it weren’t for the dwarf…  I would have gone back to him.  I am weak.  You should despise me.  I despise myself.”

“Fenris.  Don’t do this.”

“How can I not?  I have done nothing to deserve your concern.  I have nearly betrayed you, nearly _killed_ you.  You were offered the one thing you desired more than anything, and turned it down to protect me.  What have I done for you other than let you down?”

“You have saved my life, more than once.  Not only that, but you have made that life worth saving, worth living.  Before I met you it was… difficult.  You’ve heard the stories, seen the scars.  _Love,_ well that was just a game.  I never allowed myself to love once I realised it would be used as a weapon against me, against those who would care for me.  But now… Oh, Maker, how I love you.  I know I keep saying it, but I need to make you believe it.  Please, Fenris.”

“I have never loved before.  I did not realise I knew how.  Pah, perhaps I do not… unless attempted murder is a usual way to show affection.”

Anders looked sideways at the elf.  He was smiling slightly.  “Did you just make a joke?”

“Obviously a poor one, if you need to ask.” 

“Oh, Fenris.  Come here.”

He wrapped his arms tightly around the elf, closed his eyes and lost himself in the scent of his hair, the feel of his warm, vibrant body, the whisper of hot breath against his neck.

“There is nothing in our way now, Fenris.  Say you will stay with me?  Please.”

Fenris stilled in his arms and Anders felt his muscles relax and loosen as he sank more deeply into his embrace.

“I won’t leave your side.  I am yours, as always.”


	19. Epilogue

Everything changed after that.  Anders held true to his promise to provide healing to the poor of Kirkwall in exchange for the Templars turning a blind eye to the methods he used to do so.  He set up a small clinic in Darktown, the most impoverished part of the city, and offered his services for free to those who most needed them and could least afford them.  Fenris sometimes worked alongside him, mostly preparing potions and bandages, or washing down the floors.  Demand grew quickly, and Anders took on a young apprentice, a Fereldan mage named Bethany who had never been within the Circle and who had much to learn.  He patiently taught her all he knew about spirit healing under the watchful gaze of Fenris who did not trust the girl, recognised all too well the looks she gave him.

At night they made love in a small room at the back of the clinic, on a tiny cot, all tangled limbs and sweat.  They would fall asleep with their bodies still wrapped around each other, waking in the morning with cramped muscles and aching heads.  Neither ever complained.

It took time, but eventually Fenris smiled more frequently, dreamed less often.   Anders stopped thinking about what might have happened in the Hanged Man that day, and started to appreciate what they had now.

Six months after Danarius’ death, news came from Ferelden that the warden base at Vigil’s Keep had been devastated by what appeared to be a rogue band of Darkspawn left over at the end of the Blight.  Casualties were numerous and the Wardens decimated.

With a heavy heart, Anders signed over his clinic to Bethany – the girl was more than capable now, she was a quick learner and had a caring nature.  He and Fenris packed up their meagre belongings and boarded the next ship out of the Free Marches.  The Warden Commander would need his help, there would be much healing to be done, much rebuilding to start over anew.

 

He knew where he needed to be.  He was good at rebuilding.


End file.
